


Kraft Versus Art

by proser



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Babysitting, Cute Kids, Emotional Constipation, Everyone Is Gay, Family Fluff, Fluff, Food, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nothing Hurts, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2018-12-01 21:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11495424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proser/pseuds/proser
Summary: Hannibal is a happy single father. Will is an antisocial ceramics teacher. Neither of them are good at relationships, but luckily, five-year-old Abigail is here to help.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In case you needed just a load of fluff and happiness.

Hannibal considers himself a very good parent.

His daughter, Abigail, is a cheerful, intelligent, and socially-adequate five year old. She is healthy in body and in mind thanks to Hannibal's attentive care, and he intends for her to stay that way.

In the three and a half years since he's adopted her, he has never let anyone else care for her without his close supervision. He has been her sole guardian and caretaker; he simply doesn't trust anyone else to treat her as well as he does. 

Hannibal has a set way for things to be handled, and he simply prefers for his daughter's lifestyle to remain consistent.

Now that Abigail has become slightly more independent, he continues to work as a psychiatrist. He only sees a few patients, and they all come to his home instead of his old office in the city. He will leave Abigail to nap or play on her own for the handful of hours per week that he's busy.

When he's not working, he does his best to keep their lives enriched and busy. He reads to her, teaches her about music, shows her how to paint, and teaches her every language he knows. They go for walks and travel and socialize with the other children and their families.

That being said, it should be a simple fact that Hannibal does not hire caretakers. 

Unfortunately, that might just have to change.

"Are you sure there's absolutely no one else you can ask to consult?" Hannibal all but groans, his shoulders already beginning to tense up.

He's on the phone with Jack Crawford, a high-profile FBI agent. Hannibal has worked with him in the past, before parenthood, and he knows his chances of dissuading the man are low.

Crawford is an infinitely determined human being, and no amount of Hannibal's charm can change that.

"There are people we  _can_  ask,yes," Crawford replies, his tone clipped. "But none of them are as good as you, Hannibal. We need the best for this one."

Hannibal sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. This is not good.

"I can't spend all that time away from Abigail, Jack," he says, shooting one last time for a way out. "She's five years old, and I—"

"You can hire a sitter," Crawford tells him, clearly losing his patience. "I won't take no for an answer, Hannibal. Meet me at Quantico, tomorrow at ten to look at the body. We have crime scene photos. No negotiating your way out of this; you're lucky I don't demand you get down here now. Just hire a goddamned sitter and bring your brains with you."

Before Hannibal can even agree or protest, Crawford hangs up, leaving Hannibal with a bitter taste in his mouth. He's never liked the haughty FBI agent; he has little respect for the personal needs of others.

But he knows he can't decline. He owes Crawford; the man was the reason he was able to adopt Abigail in the first place.

Hannibal had been the man to track down Garret Jacob Hobbs, Abigail's biological father. He had murdered over a dozen teenage girls, and had just killed his own wife when Crawford's team caught and arrested him.

Hannibal had sympathized strongly with Abigail, despite her being only a few months old at the time. He imagined the life that she would have had if he had not apprehended her father and saved her, and felt obligated to ensure that she got the beautiful life that she deserved.

Jack Crawford had been very influential in the adoption process, being the one to convince the agency that he was the best guardian for her.

He supposes he can't deny the man a favor now.

That raises the issue, however, of procuring a sitter in such a short period of time. It will be very difficult to find someone he can trust with his daughter. He does, after all, have extremely high standards.

Luckily, he knows several wonderful parents that should be able to provide guidance.

His first thought is to call Alana and Margot, his two closest friends besides Bedelia (who doesn't know a single thing about children or parenting). He dials their house number without wasting another second.

He doubts that Abigail will mind the extra time left playing with her toys before their reading lesson.

Margot picks up, her voice heavy with sleep.

"Hannibal?" she yawns, sounding only mildly agitated. "It's eight AM, and it's a _Saturday_. This better be important."

Hannibal cuts straight to the point. "I'm having a crisis," he says. "I need your assistance."

Margot laughs, sounding more alert. "Oh, Hannibal, I knew this day would come. Everyone hits their midlife crisis eventually, even upstanding citizens such as—"

Hannibal is not in the mood to jest, and interrupts her.

"Margot. Jack Crawford called, and due to the nature of his demands, I'll need to hire a sitter for Abigail."

That stifles her amusement. 

"Oh." He hears her shuffle some, getting out of bed. "This is beyond my expertise. Let me get Alana for you." She lets out a long sigh. "She's up already; it's her weekend to make breakfast."

There's a few moments of silence as Margot crosses the house to find Alana in the kitchen. Hannibal waits patiently, tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair.

"Lana, love, Hannibal's on the phone."

He hears one of the twins (likely Heather, given her excitable personality) let out an excited cry at the sound of his name. Alana answers the phone, the sounds of oil sizzling crackling through the speaker on Hannibal's end.

"Hey there," she says. "Need help prepping dinner for Tuesday?"

Hannibal sighs. He'd nearly forgotten what week it was. Every month, he goes out of his way to host a dinner party for all of his friends with children. They all get to enjoy gourmet food, and the children get to have their own party either in the back garden or in the secondary dining room, with one of the teenagers in charge.

He won't have time for it, now.

"No," he sighs. "I'll have to let the others know." He supposes a cancellation email will do, and he can send apology cards if he has the time later.

"Oh." He hears Alana stir whatever she's cooking, and Margot talks to their children in the background. "What's the deal?"

"Jack Crawford," he answers, and he feels heavy just saying it. "He needs me to consult on a case, and the work won't exactly be quick or child-appropriate."

Alana pauses. He can imagine her brow furrowing in quiet consideration.

"Did you tell him you can't do it?" she asks.

"Yes," he says. "But no isn't in his vocabulary. You know that."

She laughs. "And that was to your advantage, once." 

"Indeed. It's that precise debt that requires me to aid him now."

"I know," she answers, sympathy leaking into her voice. He's so used to hearing it from her, but it is so rarely directed at him.

"He needs me there tomorrow," he replies, keeping his tone neutral, "and likely to remain at his disposal for further investigation. I will not be able to stay with Abigail."

As dreadful as he feels about the entire situation, the last thing he wants is for Alana to try and coddlehim. As much as he appreciates her innocent and gentle nature, he does not require her attention.

"So, you need someone to watch her, Hannibal?" Alana presses. She speaks slowly, with concern.

"Yes." It comes out as a groan, and he rests his head in a hand, rubbing at his temple.

"You know Margot and I would if we didn't have work," she replies. "Maybe we can take her in the afternoon, when Gabe and Heather are out of school and we're home anyway. There's a good daycare near the school—"

Hannibal groans again. 

"Okay, okay," Alana sighs. "Sorry I mentioned it."

"Daycares are cesspools," he reminds her. "Not to mention the punitive nature of most—"

"Our kids liked it," she says, cutting him off. "And neither of them ended up with staff infections or anything."

"I'm not putting Abigail into daycare."

"It would only be for a few days, at most, Hannibal."

He exhales sharply through his nose. "The most suitable option for my scenario would be an in-house sitter. I was hoping you had recommendations." 

"Ah." The lack of confidence in her voice is not promising. "Margot and I haven't used a babysitter since the kids were toddlers... But I'll see if I can figure something out."

"Thank you, Alana." 

"No problem. You've done more for us on even shorter notice."

She pauses a moment, and Hannibal is about ready to say goodbye and hang up, but she continues before he can.

"I'm proud of you, Hannibal. Just so you know. I realize it's not easy for you to even consider letting someone else take care of her. This is good, though."

He bites the inside of his cheek. This was the exact thing he was afraid she would do. 

"Thank you, Alana," he mutters, "but I would prefer that we keep work-language out of our relationship."

She snorts. "It's not 'work language.' It's me being supportive."

"I appreciate that," he replies, and his tone is more clipped than he means it to be. "I'll speak with you soon."

"Mmhmm. Take care, Hannibal."

He sighs one last time and ends the call. He considers writing the necessary cancellation emails now, but decides against it.

He gets up to join Abigail and begin their reading lesson.

* * *

Will jumps when his phone rings.

He doesn't get many calls—especially not on Saturday mornings, because that's when the only people who call him anymore are doing their best to sleep in.

He fumbles to get it out of his jacket pocket, his fingers slightly numb from the cold.

The early October chill has set in, and already, the grass at the park has withered away to a golden brown. Winston rolls around in a pile of yellow leaves.

Will answers without checking the caller ID; he's taken too long in answering already.

"Hello?" 

"Will! You picked up. I'm impressed."

Immediately, Will's eyebrows are raised. Brian Zeller is never up this early on the weekends; he's usually exhausted after the long week of operating Hubble or whatever the hell he does at the Space Telescope Science Institute. 

So, this probably isn't good. 

"Hey, Zeller," he answers, doing his best to keep the disgruntlement from his voice. "Something I can do for you?"

"Yeah, actually!" Brian says, his voice still chipper. "Remember when you babysat Chloe a few months back?"

Will does, and his shoulders draw back in reflex for a sharp exhale. Chloe is Brian and Jimmy's daughter, and there is no mistaking that. The seven-year-old has wit sharper than a knife, and a mischievous side that outdoes both of her fathers combined. 

For her main prank, the little girl had taken advantage of Will when he accidentally fell asleep after lunch. She painted Winston's claws with a chartreuse nail polish, and had gotten halfway done with Will's when he woke up from the resulting nose bleed.

He wouldn't have had an issue with the stunt (because gender roles be damned) if the polish hadn't been so alarmingly chemical. With what it had done to Will, he couldn't imagine how poor Winston dealt with it, considering his sensitive canine nose.

"I remember," Will replies, hesitant. "Do you need someone to watch her again? Because if so, I'm gonna have to ask that everything in the house is non-toxic."

A short laugh. "We did replace most of our stuff with more natural alternatives, so thanks for that tip," Brian says. "But I'm actually calling on the behalf of a friend."

Will stills, taking a moment to whistle for Winston to come back. He's managed to wander off a little too far into the other side of the park, and there's a small old woman with a Pomeranian that likely doesn't want to be disturbed by his muddy mutt. 

"Oh, really?" he asks, crouching down as Winston trots closer over the cold ground. 

Brian hums in confirmation. "You were so good with Chloe that Jimmy and I didn't hesitate to recommend you."

"To whom?" 

That's the defining question, after all. Will doesn't mind kids so much; they're basically two-legged dogs. Give them food they like, and they'll eat it. Keep them engaged, and they won't act up. Speak kindly, and they'll listen. And if you need a break, just tire them out so everyone can take a nap. 

It's the parents that he takes issue with. Adults in general, really, but mainly the ones that take it upon themselves to tell him how to be more "normal."

"A friend of Doctor Bloom's," Brian answers. "She speaks highly of him; they're really close, apparently."

Will frowns as he scratches at Winston's ears, thinking. He hasn't seen Alana Bloom since the whole Matthew Brown incident, and as kind as the woman was, their sessions didn't do anything to soothe him of the trauma. Even now, over three years later, he doesn't like thinking about it.

"Why didn't she call me herself?" he wonders, his frown only deepening. Winston lays down, and Will sits on the ground to give him more attention, scratching the good spot under his chin.

"Will," Brian sighs, with an acceptable mix of sympathy and exasperation, "you know why. She was your psychiatrist, and she legally can't reach out to you unless you do so first."

"Ah." Will understands, even though he's still a little bitter. The two of them never spoke after Will stopped going to sessions; a friendship, after everything, would have been inappropriate, and undesired. She saw him as a pitiful, broken thing, no matter what he did to prove her wrong, and he didn't need to deal with that. Doesn't. "So, who's this friend?"

"A guy named Doctor Lecter," replies Brian. "One of her shrink friends, I guess. He has a daughter named Abigail that he for some reason can't stand to leave alone."

"And does Doctor Bloom know that you're recommending one of her former, 'unstable' patients to watch over her friend's child?"

Brian sighs at that. "Look, Will," he says, "anyone who knows you well enough can tell you're a perfectly stable guy. What Brown did to you doesn't matter—he's rotting in prison and you're back on your feet, doing what you love."

Will smiles. For a moment, he considers arguing that he's too busy  _doing what he loves_ to be babysitting, but he decides against it. He only has classes a few days a week this time of year, anyway, so it's not exactly an excuse. 

"How do you know Doctor Bloom, anyway?" he inquires. 

"Her kids are in the same year as Chloe. They come over to our place a lot, and vice versa." He pauses a moment, and chuckles. "It has nothing to do with your therapy, worry not."

Embarrassed that Brian thought he implied that, Will bites his lip. "Oh, of course," he responds, a nervous chuckle bleeding out.

He doesn't understand parents and their social lives. Jimmy and Brian are his only friends with kids, and he forgets that there are whole social circles built around that. It sounds like too many people to him. 

"So, will you do it?" 

Will glances down at Winston, who's put his head in his lap. "That depends," he says. He pats the dog's side and gets an appreciative  _whuff_ in response. "Can Winston help?"

Brian laughs. "We'll see. I'll give you the address; Alana said you'd have to stop by and talk to him beforehand, anyway."

* * *

Hannibal gets a phone call at noon, in which Alana informs him that a potential sitter is headed his way.

"Some friends recommended him," she says. "They said he did a great job with their daughter, and let me tell you--that's no small feat. The Zellers run a tight ship, and Chloe's hard to deal with."

"And who is this sitter?" Hannibal presses.

"Didn't give me his name," she replies. "But you'll meet him soon enough. Good luck."

She hangs up quickly, allowing Hannibal to return to his preparations. There's much to do if he's going to be gone, after all.

An small, green car pulls into Hannibal's driveway just past one o'clock. It's well worn vehicle, but still practical—one he could imagine having bicycles corded to the rack on top and fishing gear packed into the back. He watches from the window of his study, where Abigail is practicing scales on the piano, singing along as she does so.

The car stops in front of the doorway, and a moment later, a man with dark hair steps out of it. A brindle dog climbs out behind him, and Hannibal bites his tongue for just a moment.

Abigail sings an off-key b-note, and Hannibal steps away from his place at the window.

"Abigail," he says, placing a hand on her shoulder, "someone is here to see us."

Her hands drop into her lap immediately, and she looks up at him with wide eyes. "But you didn't make tea," she protests, her bottom lip sticking out in a confused pout. 

He smiles at her, forever fond. She knows their routine well by now. "Our new friend surprised me," he tells her, taking her hand.

"Rude," she sighs, and looks up at him with a sour expression she surely stole from his own arsenal. Truly, a girl after his own heart. 

"It's not his fault," he points out.

She scoffs, and if he didn't know her so well, the sound would have been alien, coming from one so young.

"He won't get any tea," she says decisively, and jumps to her feet. "Or cake."

"Oh, _mažute."_

Stifling a laugh, Hannibal takes her downstairs. The doorbell rings halfway down, and they answer it a moment later.

The man behind the door looks slightly younger than Hannibal. Unkempt curls frame a face that bears a serious expression, and the man's blue eyes flicker over Hannibal, taking in information. When he looks at Abigail, he breaks into a smile.

"Hello," he says to her, and then looks back up at Hannibal—just barely meeting his eyes.

The dog stands a few feet behind, waiting for permission to greet them as well. 

"Hello," Hannibal replies. "You must be—"

"Will," the man supplies immediately. "Will Graham."

Hannibal nods. "A pleasure," he says, offering his hand. "Hannibal Lecter. And this is my daughter, Abigail."

Abigail beams up at Will, her head tilted. "Can I pet your dog?"

Will blinks at her for just a second, and then smiles again. "If your father says yes." He meets Hannibal's eyes this time, eyebrows raised.

Glancing between his daughter's pleading gaze and the comparatively large (but clearly well trained) dog, Hannibal sighs in concession and nods at Will.

"Great." He smiles and whistles, and the dog trots over. He sniffs Hannibal's hand before it is offered, and then stands before Abigail, tail wagging.

Both men watch as Abigail tentatively reaches out a hand for the dog to sniff. When it begins licking at it, she lets out a squeal of laughter and ducks away before quickly returning to pet him again.

Hannibal can't help but grin. The only dog she's ever spent time with is Alana and Margot's dog, Applesauce. This one is much more mellow, and she clearly enjoys it.

"What's its name?" Hannibal inquires, watching closely as Abigail lets out a peal of giggles before burying her face in the fur of its neck.

"Winston," Will replies. He's watching them, too, smiling openly.

"An interesting choice."

"Not really," he says. His gaze returns to Hannibal, and the fact that he doesn't quite meet his eyes does not go unnoticed. "So, ah, I was told you were gonna interview me or something?" 

"Of course," Hannibal returns. "You are, I presume, here because of Alana's friends?"

That seems to give the man a moment of pause. "Yes," he says. "Brian and Jimmy Zeller."

The names aren't familiar, but Hannibal nods all the same. "Please," he says, "come inside."

"Um." Will's lips drop into a frown as he glances at Winston and then over Hannibal's shoulder, into the house. "Winston too?"

Looking up at Hannibal, Abigail says, "Please? We can give him treats."

Hannibal doesn't think that the distribution of dog hair all over his furniture warrants treats, but between her pleading eyes and the quiet discomfort of the handsome man in front of him, he can't exactly say no.

"Winston, too," he yields, stepping to the side so that he can hold open the door. 

Abigail takes the dog by the collar and immediately begins pulling him towards the sitting room. Will crosses the threshold carefully, skimming over the interior without seeming phased by the paintings on the walls or exquisite new flooring.

Hannibal wants to take offense, but given Will's scruffy appearance, he supposes he shouldn't be surprised. His wardrobe speaks to practicality: worn steel-toed boots, a blue vest over a long sleeved shirt with what appears to be mud on the cuffs.

"I have to admit," he mutters, glancing at Hannibal from the corner of one glinting blue eye, "I wasn't expecting a mansion."

"Technically," Hannibal says, "it's a villa, if you'd note the Tuscan architecture."

"Ah." Will sweeps his gaze over the foyer one last time before turning to Hannibal again. "Where'd the little ones go?" 

Hannibal isn't sure if Will is demoting Abigail or elevating Winston by referring to them both as  'little ones.' Judging by the adoring expressions he gave the both of them, Hannibal decides it's likely neither.

"I assume Abigail has taken your dog to the kitchen by now in search of treats," he answers.

Will's eyes dart over to the closed kitchen door. "That doesn't sound good."

"Nonsense. Abigail is very well behaved." Hannibal leads Will further into the house, through the child-proofed living room. "Besides," he adds, once they approach the push-door into the kitchen, "everything is kept above her reach."

He holds the door open for Will, and only has a second to question the amused grin that plasters the man's cheeks before he sees that Abigail has used one of the stools to climb onto the countertop. He nearly gasps, but clenches his jaw and hurries into action. Before she can reach into the cabinet with the baking supplies, Hannibal hurries over to hoist her into his arms.

Clutching the back of her head, he says, "Don't go so high up, sweetest. You could fall."

Abigail squirms and he sets her down. She looks up at him with pursed lips and puppy-dog eyes, one of her little hands gripping at the loose fabric on his calf. "Winston wanted chocolate,  _teti."_

He shakes his head and grips her hand firmly. "You can't climb around like that," he tells her. 

Clearing his throat, Will cuts in, crouching down to meet her eyes. "And dogs can't eat chocolate, Abigail. It would make him sick."

"Oh." Abigail frowns and looks at her feet, which are pointed together at the toes. _"I_ wanted the chocolate," she confesses.

With a reassuring smile, Hannibal lifts her chin. "Not now, Abigail. Why don't we take Winston and Mister Graham to the backyard? You can show them your sunflowers."

This immediately cheers the girl up, and looks to Will first, who is still close to the ground. "Do you like flowers, Mister?" she asks, her smile toothy and wide. 

"I do, very much," he answers, his tone even. It's not the mocking lilt that many people use with Abigail. "And Winston does, too, but you'll have to be careful. He actually just likes to dig them up."

Unlike many adults, his attention towards her is not false or condescending. He must be able to see the intelligence behind her eyes, just as Hannibal can.

Abigail appreciates that, clearly, because she takes his hand to lead him to the garden, emboldened like Hannibal has never seen her with strangers. "He won't dig my flowers," she assures him, sounding charmingly matter-of-fact. "He's a good boy."

Will looks over his shoulder at Hannibal. His eyebrows are raised, but his smile is bright, and Hannibal decides that he likes this man.

When Abigail shows him the greenhouse, Will pays close attention to everything she says, answering her questions and asking some in return. Hannibal watches, quietly.

He doesn't need to interview him; Abigail does that for him.

The questions she asks him are nothing Hannibal would have thought of, but the manner in which Will answers them is telling enough.

Hannibal learns that Will's favorite color is 'green, like river moss,' that he 'saved Winston from a winter roadside,' that, 'no, he doesn't really listen to Mozart,' and that he is a natural with children.

Or, with Abigail, at least.

After a half hour in the greenhouse, Will confesses that he has a class to teach soon. Without thinking to ask what he teaches, Hannibal excuses him, telling him that they will meet at eight o'clock sharp the next morning. 

As they watch him slip through the gate, to the front yard and his car, Abigail tugs at her father's hand.

 _"Teti,"_ she whispers, "I'm sorry I called him rude. We should have given him tea." She lets out a dramatic sigh. "And cake."

Hannibal nods, a nearly-forgotten warmth stirring in his chest. "We should have, yes," he agrees, taking a hold of her small and precious hand. "Another time, Abigail."

He finds himself wishing that he could be there while Will takes care of Abigail, and not entirely because he's concerned about leaving her in someone else's hands. 

Will Graham, he decides, is an interesting man. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Mažute _is a Lithuanian pet name, meaning "little one." (Unless I did bad research)__
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> _  
> _Teti _is a sweet way of referring to one's father.__  
>  _  
>  _


	2. Chapter 2

For some ungodly reason, Will decides to comb his hair before leaving the house the next morning, and it feels strangely out of place (even if it's more  _in_ place than it normally is) to him. He considers putting on something nicer than what he wore the day before, because he could feel the way Hannibal internally critiqued his outfit, but realizes he doesn't know what constitutes as "nice" or if he even has that in his closet. 

He walks Winston before they get on their way, letting him run around in the park in case he needs to be tired out. He doesn't take him with him, however; he isn't sure if dogs are welcome without Hannibal's supervision. 

Will makes sure to get to Hannibal's house five minutes before eight, just because Hannibal strikes him as the kind of man to appreciate a timely, early arrival. 

Not sure of why he cares so much, he finds himself fiddling with the broken zipper of his windbreaker anxiously when Hannibal opens the door.

He appears to be perfectly calm, though the urgency with which he hands Will a handwritten list upon his entrance betrays an anxiety hidden beneath his composed exterior. 

"Welcome," he says, closing the door behind him. "I've given you Abigail's schedule, as well as a few rules. We can go over everything before I leave; I do not need to leave for another hour."

Will stares at the paper and blinks, unable to read anything - not because the handwriting is indecipherable, but rather because it's written in such beautiful calligraphy that he can't help but stare.

"Sure," he says, dumbly. "Sure." He shakes his head and looks up at Hannibal, who is regarding him with a guarded (but not unfriendly) expression.

"Are there any restrictions on your own schedule, Will?" he inquires. "Or any other restrictions, for that matter."

Holding the paper, feeling blank and idiotic, Will only  _barely_ remembers that he has a job outside of the strange bubble that is Hannibal's home. It's like everything disappears when he's inside.

"Ah, I have work Tuesday through Friday," he admits. "But you won't need me past tomorrow, right?"

Hannibal's expression darkens for a moment. "Hopefully not."

Will suddenly feels compelled to ask what Hannibal is leaving to do; clearly, he doesn't do it normally, or else he would have needed a sitter earlier. But there's something behind his eyes that Will recognizes, and he doesn't need to ask.

"Abigail is in the dining room," Hannibdal says. "I have prepared breakfast for us, and you are free to join."

Again, Will just blinks, but after a moment, he folds the paper and places it in his shirt pocket. Hannibal leads him into the dining room, where Abigail has already begun nibbling at her food. She's devoured most of what appears to a persimmon, and a steaming bowl of something that smells divine has been left untouched. 

There are two other similar places set at the table, and Hannibal pulls out a chair for Will to sit at the head of it. Feeling strange, Will takes the seat.

He's put at ease when Abigail grins at him, face sticky from the persimmon she's eating. "Hello, Mister Will," she chirps. Glancing up at her father, she adds, "Papa said I could call you that."

"You can just call me Will," he assures her, and he looks up at Hannibal, too.

The slightly imposing man simply shrugs and takes his own seat at the table. He gracefully unfolds a red napkin and places it in his lap, and Will realizes Hannibal is prompting him to do the same.

He quickly copies him, and then watches as Hannibal delicately raises a fork and knife to begin eating.

It's then that Will looks down at the food before him. Like Abigail, he has a small plate of beautifully arranged fruit: a deeply orange persimmon cored and filled with brown pear slices so thin that they're almost translucent. The 'core' of the persimmon, the part that reveals the fruit's internal star shape, is cut into coins that surround the rest of the display.

He also has a small bowl, which he now recognizes to be a ramekin. Its contents puff out of the top, and it gives of a divine scent.

"A ham, leek, and smoked gouda souffle," Hannibal informs him. "And, of course, hachiya persimmons and bosc pears dusted with cinnamon."

Will stares at it all for a moment, shocked. "You made this?" he asks.

Hannibal raises his eyebrows, as if offended that Will might think otherwise. "I always cook for myself," he answers, "though I enjoy cooking for guests even more."

"You didn't have to go to all this trouble," Will mumbles. Everything looks as though it was extremely difficult to prepare, and likely time consuming. He doesn't want--

"Eat your food," Abigail chimes in, her tone cheerful but somehow authoritative. It's a casual power that Will wouldn't ordinarily expect from a child her age, but he's already had time to determine that Abigail is no ordinary child.

Hannibal chuckles and takes a bite of his souffle. "You heard her," he says.

And so, Will eats his souffle and does his best not to scarf it all down at once or moan at how delicious it is. He saves the fruit for a sort of dessert, and they are more sweetly flavorful than just about anything he's had in a while.

It makes him wonder for a moment if maybe he should expand his fruit intake so that he's enjoying more than just barely-ripe bananas, but he quickly figures he wouldn't be able to find (or afford) anything as delicious as what Hannibal has served him.

Abigail tells them about her dream from the night before, in which a silver dragon serenaded her with a violin. Occasionally, she looks at Hannibal and will excitedly slip into a different language (Will counts three in five minutes; French, maybe Italian, and something that sounds Eastern European). She speaks as confidently in other languages as she does in English, but whenever she breaks into one of them, Hannibal gently tells her to use English in front of their guest.

He refers to Will as 'our new friend,' which he finds both curious and heartwarming.

Once Abigail has finished recounting her dream, she turns to Will, young blue eyes full of mirth and light.

"Did you have good dreams, Will?"

And it's with that question that he falters. He looks down at his empty ramekin and smiles wryly, trying to ignore the things that have begun to squirm at the edges of his mind at the mention of nightmares. "My dreams aren't so good, Abigail," he confesses, and his breath falters as the remainders of his persimmon turn to exposed muscle, twitching angrily.

His hand reflexively jerks to his left forearm to reassure him that everything is still in tact. The knotted, vertical scar is the only thing there to remind him of what happened with Matthew Brown and the nightmares that continue to plague him.

Hannibal's gaze seems to intensify at that, and Will worries if he's done something wrong. When he looks at Hannibal's eyes, however, he's flooded with something strange.

Curiosity, he thinks, but warmer.

"You had scary ones?" Abigail asks, pouting her lips at him. "I have bad dreams sometimes, but Papa scares them away. He's good at it. Remember what you do when I have bad dreams,  _teti?"_

"I put you back to bed and remind you that nothing can hurt you when I am near," he answers. His eyes on Abigail are fond, and his voice is assertive and loving. 

"And nothing does!" Abigail agrees. She takes a tiny bite of her souffle, but her nose wrinkles as she does so. She swallows it anyway and looks at Will. "You need Papa to scare away your nightmares."

Unable to help it, Will feels his cheeks warm as they undoubtedly turn pink. He's always been quick to blush, never able to conceal it, even under the facial hair he always hopes will combat it.

He doesn't think it's appropriate to imagine Abigail's father protecting him from his nightmares, and he frankly doesn't think it's possible.

Gracefully, Hannibal changes the subject. "Abigail has a very particular palate, Will," he explains. "I've prepared enough food to last you both for the day. You'll find everything labeled in the refrigerator."

Will can't help but think it strange that Hannibal just referred to a five-year-old's pickiness as a "particular palate," but he goes with it anyway. Pulling out the paper that Hannibal gave him from his pocket, he says, "Shall we go over everything? Looks like your hour's closing up."

It's past eight-thirty, and Hannibal did mention that he needed to leave by nine.

He clears his throat, clearly regretful. "Yes," he agrees, standing up and gathering his clean plate. "Abigail, I want you to take three more bites of your souffle before I'm back from the kitchen. Can you do that, sweetest?"

Abigail, in a testament to her 'particular palate,' curls her lip and eats a bite of pear instead. 

Hannibal sighs. "I will check," he warns her.

She takes another indignant bite of the fruit in response. 

Will bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning, not wanting to encourage her, and gathers his own dirty dishes. Hannibal leads him into the kitchen, where he shows him how he prefers his dishes to be washed and where everything goes.

After that, they stand beside each other, backs leaned against the counter, while Hannibal explains everything he's written on Will's piece of paper in further detail.

It's mostly Abigail's schedule, which has been modified with the brutal (but accurate) assumption that Will isn't a fit teacher for half of the things that the girl is learning to do.

Then, they return to the kitchen, where Abigail has left a considerable dent in the souffle, and all of her pear slices are gone. Hannibal eyes her plate suspiciously, but seems to decide that there's nowhere the food could have gone without the girl ingesting it.

He kisses his daughter goodbye and shakes Will's hand at the door.

"I should hopefully return by late evening. I will pay you double for every hour past seven, as I should be home by then. If not, you have instructions regarding Abigail's bedtime routine."

"Noted," Will replies, and gives him a kind smile as the father seems to linger at the door longer than he should, worried eyes fixed on his daughter.

He kneels down to her and takes her face in his hands.

"Will you be alright without me, Abigail?" he asks her.

Will senses the question is rhetorical, but Abigail answers anyway.

"Yes,  _teti."_ She kisses his cheek.

Hannibal looks like he might cry, but stands and nods at Will before retreating to his car.

Will wonders what worries this man so much, but is even more puzzled as to how and why he's been entrusted with his daughter so quickly.

Abigail takes his hand and leads him to a study upstairs, where he follows the schedule and reads to her from a book of children's stories. 

* * *

Hannibal allows himself a few tears on the drive to Quantico. His gut tells him that his daughter is in good hands, that he's barely leaving her for a day, that they will be separated for much longer in the years to come, and still he wants to weep.

Abigail is his everything. He only wants the best for her. 

Will had better want the same. 

* * *

Abigail, despite everything that Will had assumed from Hannibal's worried doting, is remarkably independent.

She leads Will around the house, carrying out the listed daily schedule without any prompting on Will's part. He checks the piece of paper every time that she begins a new task or takes him somewhere else, and by eleven o'clock, Will realizes that he doesn't really have to do anything besides watch over her.

It had been quite different with Chloe. The Zellers' daughter needed constant nudging to keep her from doing anything she wasn't supposed to, and would have spent the entire day drawing on the walls with crayon had she been given the chance.

Abigail, however, is content to follow a predetermined routine, and happily.

Will watches her practice scales and complies when she asks him to sing along. He doesn't warn her that he's a terrible singer; given the girl's determination in everything else, he doubts a silly thing like that would stop her.

So, he sings along with a half-hearted 'do re mi,' but makes it to 'fa' when she stops playing and turns to stare at him.

Blinking twice, she says, "Your voice is very ugly, Mister Will."

"Oh," he says, taken aback by the critical intelligence she seems to exude. "I'm sorry. Your father must be much better at this."

Then, she beams at him, the bright smile reminding him that she's still very young, and there is no judgment with her. 

"Papa is bad, too," she tells him. "You both sound like parrots." She turns back to the keys. Politely, she adds, "You can stop singing for the rest of this."

"Gladly," he answers, pursing his lips and stifling a laugh. Somehow, he has trouble believing that Hannibal's voice is bad. In speech, Will couldn't help but notice the lilt to his words, the lovely timbre with which he spoke every word...

He can't imagine Hannibal sounding anything  _but_ heavenly.

Then again, it could just be the accent. 

Abigail's accent is more muddied. Some words carry the weight of Hannibal's sophisticated European accent, but mostly, she sounds like the average American child - albeit clearly more intelligent and well-spoken.

When the piano session ends, Abigail informs him that it's time for her other language sessions, and he doesn't check the paper because he knows he needn't question her by now. They had already spent a decent portion of the morning practicing English. Will helped her read (which she managed to do well, all things considered) and practice her vocabulary words.

Now, he's uncertain as to what they will do for her other language lessons. Hannibal had informed him that Abigail would be able to function well without her father there to teach her, but Will isn't sure what  _he's_ supposed to do. 

Abigail settles herself at a child-sized desk and procures a blue leather notebook. She immediately opens it and opens it to one of the marked sections, which is labeled in a language he doesn't understand.

Will stands behind her to peer over her shoulder. The words are written in Hannibal's handwriting: beautiful cursive spaced out evenly across unlined paper. He doesn't recognize the words at all, but Abigail begins writing them them in the large spaces provided.

A handwriting exercise. 

"What language is this?" he asks her.

She doesn't look up, but her hand stops writing. "Lithuanian," she replies. "It's Papa's."

Will assumes she doens't mean to imply that the entire language belongs to him, but likely that it's his mother tongue. It would make sense, given his accent.

He does look decidedly Eastern European, Will notes.

"What other languages do you speak, Abigail?"

She sighs and sets the pen to the side. She turns to the next tab in the notebook, the first page of which is devoted to careful sketches with characters written next to them. "Japanese," she says. "It's the hardest." Turning to the next tab, which is nearly the same but with entirely recognizable script, she says, "English." The next and last two are French and Italian.

Will can hardly believe the amount of languages Hannibal is teaching her. Given the confidence in which she demonstrates her handwriting in each to him, he guesses that she has no issue with any of them.

And ordering of the notebook implies that none of them are her first language, but rather that Hannibal has taught them all to her in tandem.

He wonders what it would be like to think with that many words crammed into one head.

Once Abigail begins demonstrating her French words to him, Will realizes this is somewhere he can be useful. With a smile, he says, " _Je parle francais!"_

Abigail tilts her head and smiles. _"Génial!"_ she exclaims. _"Dire quelque chose!"_ Her eyes glitter with the request.

And Will falters, just like he did when his father would take him up north to the boatyards and other children would demand he say something in French. 

Despite having grown up hearing it, it's always hard to procure something to say. His usual response was  _"Ne m'oblige pas à te parler,"_ but he doesn't think that would be well received here.

 _"Tu es un chouchou!"_ he tells her with a grin.

The word misses her, but she smiles hesitantly in return. _"Un chouchou?"_ she repeats.

He doesn't know the proper word for it in French, only this endearing version. "A cabbage," he explains.

She begins giggling and covers her face in her hands. "Don't eat me!" she cries, peeking out between splayed fingers. "Cabbage is Papa and my favorite  _légume!"_

Chuckling, Will says, "It's close to lunch. Are you hungry yet?"

 _"You_ are!" Abigail protests. "You called me cabbage!"

"I am," he agrees. "Let's go to the kitchen."

They eat the lunch Hannibal prepared them. There's no microwave to be seen, so Will reheats the glass containers in the oven, assuming and hoping they can handle the heat. 

It's a beef stew of the likes that Will has never experienced before. More than just carrots, onions, and whatever cheap cut the butcher was willing to part with like he grew up with.

The meat seems to melt on his tongue, but it's not too fatty. The vegetables still have texture, but are cooked so well that their flavors are perfectly melded into the dish. The herbs and spices don't just add flavor, but tie everything together.

Abigail eats it with muted disinterest. Will can't imagine how a child would enjoy half the food that Hannibal prepares. Do kids even like gourmet food?

When he was growing up, anything that wasn't coming from a can was a novelty. 

He finishes the stew, and Abigail's remains half-finished. He doesn't think it's his place to pester her about it, so instead he asks her if she's thirsty.

"Yes," she says.

He goes to the fridge, then. "Do you want juice or something?" he asks, poking around the fridge. He can't see anything recognizable to drink. Nothing's labeled, as if Hannibal had prepared everything from scratch or picked it up in the raw from the farmer's market. 

He sees a pitcher of what appears to be milk, so he pulls it out. "How's this?" he asks her.

She looks at him as if he's suggested they try and high-five a walrus. 

"Why do you want to drink cream?" she asks.

He quickly places it back in the fridge. With a sigh, he says, "I don't know where anything is."

With a tiny sigh, Abigail leaves her seat. She goes towards one of the counters, and begins climbing up on it before Will picks her up and sets her on the ground.

"Woah, there, cowgirl," he warns her. "Your papa said not to go up there. Just tell me where to look."

She huffs and points at the cabinet she was trying to reach. "Cups," she says. 

Will complies and finds a shelf full of sturdy plastic cups. They all look glass, and perfectly elegant, but are obviously designed to endure all of the abuse that comes with clumsy children. 

He takes one for himself and Abigail. "Okay," he says. "Now what?"

She leads him to the counter by the sink, where there's a sturdy looking red machine. "Papa puts the water in there," she says. "Sometimes juice, if he makes it."

It's a carbonation machine, he realizes. Of course Hannibal gives his daughter sparkling water and homemade juice. 

After figuring out how the machine works, he prepares her drink (deciding to just have his own water flat).

"You ever just have regular soda around here?" he asks, kind of frustrated with the complex machine. Boat engines he can handle, but all these buttons are confusing. 

"Soda?" she asks. "Like baking soda? Papa cleans with it."

"No," he laughs, shaking his head. "You know, pop. Cola."

She just blinks at him and frowns.

"Jesus, kid," he sighs. "What am I going to do with you?"

* * *

By early afternoon, Will's lost his instructional piece of paper. He doesn't need it, not with Abigail orchestrating everything so perfectly. It feels more like she's keeping  _him_ busy, and not the other way around.

They spend a few hours in the greenhouse. Abigail sings to the flowers and tells Will about the different herbs Hannibal grows. She gets him to taste them all, as well as a few plants he's fairly certain aren't meant to be eaten.

He's not sure if this is really what's on her schedule, but she's enjoying herself, and he's lost the paper, so what can he do about it?

After the greenhouse, she has him set up a 'picnic' for them out on the front lawn. They sit on a blanket and sip tea he probably let steep for too long. Abigail introduces him to all her stuffed animals and spills tea on a few of them, but she's not upset by it.

She's a cheerful child, Will thinks. 

Once they clean that up, she says it's her art time. They return to the study and she pulls out a sketchbook, carrying it to her desk. She scribbles on the pages with crayons and laments that she doesn't have any paint.

Will would have tried to find her some, but he had gone to look at her art as she said it. He realizes that this sketchbook is not her own; she's colored in a beautiful pencil sketch of a half-naked woman. It's slightly erotic, with the way she's dangling herself over the branch of a tree.

He's immediately mortified.

"Is that your papa's, Abigail?" he asks her, feeling tentative. He's fairly certain that Hannibal wouldn't let her look at, let alone add to, that kind of art. 

Unable to hide her tell, Abigail's face immediately goes red. 

"Does he let you draw in his book, Abigail?"

She shakes her head 'no.'

With a sigh, Will takes the sketchbook from her. She makes a few sniffling sounds and apologizes, and he assures her that it will be fine. He leaves the book out on the desk and makes a mental note to talk to Hannibal about it. 

By then, they're hungry. Will reheats what Hannibal left for them, and Will once again finds it exquisite. Abigail doesn't seem so interested.

He watches her eat and decides she needs some honest-to-god kid food. He'll pick some up next time he comes over.

* * *

Hannibal returns at seven, grateful that he wasn't kept any later by Jack Crawford. The work was grueling, the case itself gruesome, and he wanted more than anything to return to the pleasant company of his daughter.

When he enters the house, he finds that she and Will are playing checkers while sat on the floor. He's pleased to see that Abigail is winning, and decides that she's likely ready to start learning chess. 

"Hello!" he announces. He's filled with warmth from seeing that she's still perfectly well, and getting along with Will. "Did you have a good day?"

To his dismay, however, his precious daughter doesn't respond. She's too enraptured by the game, deciding her next move. Her lips are in a tight frown; Will's just taken out one of her kings. 

But Will looks up and smiles in her place. "Hey," he says, and the fireplaces' flames light him so that he seem to glow from behind. "Didn't hear you come in."

Hannibal swallows and ignores the way Will's face seems to glow, highlighting every feature perfectly. "I'm light on my feet," he answers. 

Will glances at Abigail, who still hasn't looked up. With another smile, he gets to his feet, brushing off the seat of his pants. "Need your status report?" he asks.

Before Hannibal can respond, Abigail lets out a cry in protest, looking up at Will with betrayal in her eyes. "Will!" she wails, reaching for his pant leg. "We're still playing!"

Will turns to look at her, his expression sweet. "Your papa just got home," he says, smiling in both amusement and concilation. "I have to talk with him."

"Yes, _mažute,"_ Hannibal says. He wants to complain that it's rude of her to not greet him, but he can't. His Abigail isn't  _rude._

She pouts, but lets go of Will and turns back to the game, likely taking advantage of the extra time to ponder her next move.

Will takes Hannibal into the foyer, his hands in his pockets.

"Did everything go smoothly?" Hannibal inquires. The light in here lesser, without the fireplace and the chandelier. He's rueful to admit that Will looks no less admirable illuminated by the warm wall lamps.

He doesn't know why he feels so bitter about it. Normally, he'd be delighted to find a new subject to sketch. If anything, he should be upset that he hadn't noticed earlier.

"Yeah," Will agrees, shifting to avoid Hannibal's gaze. He lacks mirth and confidence, left alone with Hannibal. "No injuries or major traumas, which is pretty good when dealing with a kid as bright as her."

Hannibal immediately stiffens, unable to determine if Will's avoidance is simply that, or a betrayal of guilt. Was there a  _minor_ trauma?

"What happened?" he presses, feeling a surge of both fear and anger, washing out into overall concern. 

"Nothing," Will promises, offering a smile and holding up his hands (slight, calloused hands; clearly hands that know good, honest work). "She's just a clever kid. Behaved all morning, and then stole the paper you gave me so she could have some fun." He laughs wryly, shaking his head. "It was a grade A tactic. She got me to trust her and everything."

Hannibal's eyes narrow, tries not to let his eyes follow Will's hands when they drop back to his sides. "Are you implying my daughter manipulated you?" His nostrils flare involuntarily. He knows he's merely searching for something to pin his ill feelings on, knows that he's being overly protective, but Will Graham's dark curls and chapped lips are so beautiful they warrant anger.

Especially if those lips are being used to slander his child. 

But Will just raises his eyebrows, his face remaining neutral. "She's a kid," he says, shrugging in a way that makes it a full-body motion. "I don't hold it against her or you for wanting to see what she could get away with." 

He seems unaffected by the rage Hannibal has begun to allow to roll off of him, still standing in a completely nonchalant pose.

"What did you do, Will Graham?" he demands. 

Will's eyes widen minutely, but he laughs. "Relax," he says, and it's almost mocking in the way it falls from his mouth. "She just got me to let her spend the afternoon serenading the entire greenhouse and drinking tea on the lawn." His relaxed posture turns into a frown as he glances over his shoulder. "She, ah, got at your sketchbook, though. Scribbled over a drawing. I hadn't realized she took yours."

Hannibal closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He does not like being lied to. No matter how pretty the face. 

"Will," he says, very carefully, "do not blame my daughter if you decided to look through my sketches. Just tell me what really happened, and perhaps we can move past this."

"What?" 

"I am having trouble believing your story," he clarifies, opening his eyes to briefly catch Will's blue ones before they dart away. He makes note of them, the color of Mischa's first bicycle and cornflowers in spring, distracting him slightly. He forgets his next point.

Will pulls him back with a bitter laugh. "Look," he says, he himself doing the very opposite, his eyes scanning the floor. "She's a good kid. I'm not accusing her of anything! I didn't care, she didn't really, I just thought you should know."

From the sitting room, Abigail lets out a triumphant exclamation.

"I'm gonna beat you, Will!" she sings.

And Hannibal immediately softens. Abigail clearly likes Will, and he doesn't want to ruin that by grating him over a small misunderstanding. He will just make it clear that he won't be lied to again.

He can make an allowance, anyhow, to see those eyes again.

Purely so he can sketch them, of course. 

* * *

Once Will has left the house with instructions to return the next morning at eight o'clock, it's time to prepare for bed.

Abigail brushes her teeth and changes into her favorite purple night gown, while Hannibal makes a warm glass of milk for her. He stirs in the cinnamon and a teaspoon of honey and brings it upstairs to her bedroom, where she is already waiting for him on top of the covers of her twin bed.

Usually, she's already burrowed herself under the covers by now; the poor dear can hardly ever stay up past eight. Even now, her eyes are drooping as she attempts to sit up straight against the headboard. 

Hannibal frowns at the sight. Seating himself on the edge of the bed, he sets the tray with the milk on the nightstand.

"Is something troubling you, _mažute?"_ he asks her, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

She frowns at the motion, the look always troubling on a face as young and innocent as hers. Hannibal withdraws his hand, folding both in his lap. Sometimes, Abigail becomes tired of speaking and simply withdraws--especially after a day of socialization.

He often has to work very hard to avoid psychoanalyzing it, but always reminds himself that she does not deserve to be looked at with a clinical eye from her own father.

"Would you like me to go now, Abigail?" he asks her, trying to keep the concern and disappointment from his expression.

She simply shakes her head and reaches for the glass of milk. She takes a few solemn sips from it, sighs in her usual dramatic nature, and sets it back on the tray.

"I miss Will," she announces, pouting resolutely.

Hannibal can't stifle a laugh. "Already?" he asks, tilting his head at her. "My little one, is that what this is about?"

She does not approve of him demeaning her situation, clearly, because she gives him a dark look. "Papa," she says, ignoring the question, "can you have Will come back? I want him to put me to bed."

Now, it's Hannibal who pouts. 

"Not me,  _mažute?"_

"No,  _teti."_ As if it were obvious. 

"Abigail," he sighs, wondering what he's done to deserve this, "Will is already home. I can't have him come all the way back here just to tuck you in!"

This logic clearly doesn't make sense to her, but she relents anyway. "Fine," she agrees, and begins crawling underneath her covers. "But next time, Papa," she says, pulling the blanket over her and fishing out her favorite stuffed zebra from underneath the pillows, "come home later!"

Hannibal blinks, wounded.

"Did you not miss me?" he asks her. He turns to face her so that she sees his look of betrayal.

A dirty move, perhaps, but she isn't playing fairly, either.

"Of course I did," she answers, "but I miss Will now."

He can't help but imagine that she wasn't asking after him when she was in Will's care. How is it that he can devote his entire life to her, and she grows tired of him the second she meets a new caretaker?

It's no matter, anyhow. Jack Crawford needs him to work, still, and Hannibal wouldn't be so cruel or jealous as to take Will away from her in punishment. She will grow tired of him, too, he reasons. 

But what if she doesn't? What if Will, with his handsome face and clever banter, is more fun than Hannibal?

Well, perhaps Abigail wouldn't bank on those qualities, but still.

Is Hannibal a boring parent?

What can Will offer that is so much better than what Hannibal has always provided?

He is pulled from his questioning when Abigail reaches out for his hand. Relieved and grateful, he reaches for hers and presses a kiss to the back of it.

"Papa?" she asks, her tone light and curious. He knows that tone.

"Yes, Abigail?" he returns, wondering what strange and off-topic question she has for tonight.

"Would you ever eat me? Like the witch in _Hänsel und Gretel?_ "

The question fills him with cold dread, and his mind is immediately filled with the images of Garret Jacob Hobbs' victims. Cannibalized,  _honored_ in a way that no one should be honored.

A fate that Hannibal did his best to save Abigail from.

Fear grips at his heart, an all-encompassing and unforgiving thing. He wonders if Abigail somehow heard about her birth father, the man who, in Hannibal's mind, has no right to be called that.

Garret Jacob Hobbs was not a father. He was a monster.

And Hannibal is no monster.

Out of instinct, he reaches for Abigail and pulls her small and vulnerable form into his arms. 

"Never, Abigail," he tells her. He tries to laugh, but it comes out hollow and cracked. "Why would you ask such a silly thing?"

She pushes him off and he sits back. His eyes are stinging.

"Will called me a cabbage," she says simply. "You like cabbages."

And the fear is washed over with cool relief, like water over a first-degree burn. 

 _"Mon petit chou,"_ he laughs, absurdly grateful that his daughter is not worrying about cannibalism. It was only a pet name that brought her there, and it was only a fairy tale curiosity. Nothing darker.

 _"Ouaise,"_ she answers, unperturbed. _"Tu aimes les choux."_

He laughs again, happy that all is still well. They will have to discuss cannibalism later in life, he knows, when it's time for Abigail to know about her past, but for now, she is young and innocent.

But there are precautions to be made to preserve that innocence. He's reminded of Will's earlier report, and whether or not it's true, it needs to be addressed. 

Hannibal's art is frequently not fit for the eyes of children. The architecture and the nudity are fine, of course; he has no reason to hide that.

But his sketchbook, more often than not, is a place where he can suss out his fears. He uses his pen to free himself of his nightmares, giving them a place to exist outside of his head. 

"Will says you were in my sketchbook," he tells her, calmed now. "Is that true?"

Immediately, her features fall. "Yes," she admits. "I'm sorry, Papa. I just wanted to make pretty things like you do."

"Abigail," he sighs. "Your art is very pretty. Mine is just different."

She huffs and leans back into her pillow. 

"Good night, _teti."_

That's the end of that, he supposes.

"Good night,  _mon petit chou."_

She smiles at him and closes her eyes. He takes the tray with the milk back to the kitchen before retreating to his study before bed.

There are things that he saw today with Jack Crawford that he doesn't want filling his head any longer.

The sketchbook that he finds left on his desk is a safe one. Architecture and nudity, nothing more, and what Abigail has drawn over is nothing of an overtly sexual nature. All the same, he imagines that Will must have been mortified.

He places it back on the shelf where it belongs, and removes the two that are filled with his less appropriate pieces.

After expelling visions of mushroom-covered corpses onto willing paper until well past midnight, Hannibal places the books in a place where Abigail will not be able to reach.

He sleeps peacefully, the nightmares having been dealt with before they had a chance to fester. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translations:
> 
> "Je parle francais." I speak French.
> 
> "Genial! Dire quelque chose!" Great! Say something!
> 
> "Ne m'oblige pas à te parler." Don't make me talk to you.
> 
> "Tu es un chouchou!" You're a cabbage! (chouchou being a cutesy version of the word cabbage, used as a term of endearment)
> 
> "legume" vegetable
> 
> "mon petit chou" My little cabbage (another version of the term of endearment)
> 
> "Ouaise, tu aimes les choux." Yeah, you like cabbages.
> 
> Recipes:
> 
> [savory souffles](http://www.foodandwine.com/recipes/ham-leek-and-gouda-souffles)
> 
> [fancy-ass beef stew](https://www.tablespoon.com/recipes/julia-childs-beef-bourguignon/cdda3ccc-3623-4363-8095-aaca1a3f8313)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter's breakfast recipe](https://www.tastingtable.com/cook/recipes/japanese-curry-shakshuka-recipe-breakfast) was inspired by the fact that my market had a bunch of giant kabocha squashes and I had to look up things to make with them. 
> 
> If your market has some of these fabulous green pumpkins, do yourself a fuckign favor and buy one

When Hannibal wakes the next day, a pit of dread fills his stomach.

It's only Monday, only his second day of consultation, but he strongly wills it to be the last. He knows he's hardly had enough time to figure out exactly who is making the mushroom gardens, but he hopes with every fiber of his being that there will be a breakthrough today. 

Even if he doesn't, he knows he can just tell Jack he's done. He can say he can't do it, he  _won't_ do it. He never promised anything past the first day, after all.

And Will has work starting on Tuesday, he remembers. 

He rolls out of bed with a sigh. He's loathe to waste his time on things he doesn't enjoy, and thus is unfamiliar with starting off his day with trepidation. 

Thankfully, cooking breakfast is a blissful distraction. Autumn has brought him a bountiful selection of produce from both his garden and the market, and he selects a small kabocha squash from the garden as the foundation of the morning meal. He's been preparing for this particular breakfast for nearly a week now, allowing the tofu to marinate in the red miso for that time.

Hannibal doesn't often eat vegetarian meals, but when he does, he makes sure that they're done  _right._

He hums to himself as he cleaves the squash before setting it in the oven to roast. It's not seven o'clock yet, and Abigail is still sleeping, so he indulges himself with playing some music on the kitchen speakers.

His daughter, he finds, rarely does well with background noise—especially not in the mornings.

It's not until he's filled the kitchen with the aroma of garlic, ginger, and  _harissa_ that he realizes he ought to wake her. The sun is up and lighting the house and the tomatoes are simmering with the roux and spices, giving him the perfect opportunity to abandon his post.

Once he steps out of the kitchen, however, he finds that he needn't wake Abigail, because she's already gotten herself up. She's sat herself in the same place where she played chess with Will the night before. 

Her enthusiasm is clear enough, and the fact that she's already dressed herself speaks to that. Her shirt is backwards, he notes, but that's nothing unusual with her. 

"Good morning," he says, crouching down on the floor next to her. "Are you excited for the new day?"

She looks away from the chess board to nod earnestly, and frowns at something when she sees him.

"What is it, little one?" 

"You're in your sleep clothes," she remarks, pursing her lips. "You can't be ready to see Will in your sleep clothes."

He smiles, not at all surprised that it's  _still_ coming back to the damned babysitter with her. Abigail never gets up on her own accord, or dresses herself, as independent as she is. 

She finds Will Graham very special—that much is obvious.

He wants to be able to say that he doesn't feel the same way, but it's hard not to. 

"I'll get dressed, then," he says, and kisses her on the forehead. 

She snorts. "Good."

Upstairs, Hannibal selects a more casual wardrobe for the day—partially because he doesn't want to taint another one of his suits with the reek of the lab, and partially because he wonders if it would have any affect on Will's impression of him.

He settles for a gray-and-blue checked blazer with a black sweater over a lighter gray shirt. No tie, because  _casual._

Upon returning downstairs, Abigail gives him her approval when she follows him into the kitchen.

Well, at least approval of his change of clothes.

"It smells yucky in here," she proclaims, standing on her tiptoes to try and see what's on the stove.

Hannibal lifts her into his arms, allowing her to see their breakfast. He frowns at her choice of adjective; 'yucky' is not a word he taught her, and he can only assume that she picked it up from the Verger-Bloom twins.

"It will be delicious, I promise."

She huffs and wraps her arms around his neck, facing the oven. "There's squash," she says, sounding quite hopeful.

He bites back a sigh, knowing fully well how the rest of the conversation is about to go. "Would you like yours separate?" he asks before she can bother.

Despite his efforts to be the best parent, he often forgets that young palates prefer simpler foods. In his own pursuit of culinary excellence, he often forgets that he is feeding a child as well as himself.

"Yes, please!" she exclaims, wriggling.

He sets her back on her feet and smiles. "And the eggs?"

"Yes." She nods and looks back up at the stove. "No red sauce."

"At least try it,  _mažute."_

Nose wrinkling, she shakes her head.  _"Teti."_

"Don't  _teti_ me, young lady," he chides, but he knows it's pointless. He's already lost and given up the argument. 

Abigail gives him a look of half-feigned contrition as he removes the squash from the oven, and then settles on her stool. She watches as he begins to boil the water to poach the eggs.

They both jump when the doorbell rings: Abigail out of excitement and Hannibal out of surprise.

"It's twenty minutes early," he mutters, but Abigail is already running to answer the door.

He turns the stove's heat and removes the tray of squash from the oven before he joins her. When he enters the foyer, she's struggling with the doorknob. It's still locked, so she can't open it.

She relents upon his arrival, and he does it for her.

Will Graham stands on the other side, better dressed than the day before, but regardless looking like a gray-brown prairie grandmother. It's namely the fault of his sweater, a coarse wool thing that's the color of spoiled cream. 

It's not at all endearing, Hannibal tells himself.

"Good morning!" Abigail exclaims, bouncing as she tightly grasps Hannibal's hand.

"Morning, Abigail," Will returns, giving her a bright smile. It wavers slightly when he looks up at Hannibal. 

"Will," Hannibal says, as warmly as he can. "Good morning. Please, come in. Breakfast is almost ready."

Abigail releases Hannibal's hand and darts to the kitchen, leaving the two men alone for a moment. Hannibal is aware of Will's tense posture and the words visibly trying to form on his tongue, and does him the favor of speaking first.

"I apologize for any hostility I may have shown last night," he says, closing the door behind them with a  _click._ "I'm afraid I was upset by my daughter's quick attachment to you."

Will's eyebrows shoot up, but most of the tension dissipates. "Jealous, Hannibal?"

Hannibal purses his lips, partially in embarrassment and partially because he's never enjoyed hearing his name come from another person's mouth so much.

"Perhaps," he confesses. "But my own insecurities can be overlooked. Abigail enjoys your presence, which is unusual. She likes you."

 _I might like you,_ he thinks.

Instead, he finishes by adding, "And I still require a sitter, of course, so here we are."

"Of course," Will agrees. He's looking past Hannibal, just over his shoulder. "But you won't need me tomorrow, will you? I have classes Tuesdays."

"I recall." Hannibal begins leading him into the kitchen. "I plan to be returning to normal life by the end of this evening, if all goes well." He holds the door open to invite Will in.

Will's eyes shut, and he takes a deep breath. "It smells amazing in here." It comes so quickly, it might be reflex.

Hannibal finds that a pleasant thought. "Abigail might disagree with you," he says.

The girl has returned to her stool by the counter. Her face is scrunched together in obvious distaste; not so pleasant.

"Abigail," Hannibal says, turning his focus to the pot of boiling water. "Would you and Will set the table while I finish here?"

She immediately looks to Will with her brightest smile. "I'm not big enough to reach the dishes."

Hannibal does his best not to watch intently as Abigail orders Will around the kitchen, telling him which plates and utensils to grab. He carries them all into the dining room, and Hannibal notes that none of what his daughter has selected are from the same set.

He plates the dish while he listens to Abigail telling Will where everything goes, smiling despite himself.

* * *

Breakfast, as Will expected, is delicious.

The stewed tomatoes and poached eggs, Hannibal informs him, are components of an Israeli dish called _shashuka,_ but the green-skinned squash and tofu crumbles are a Japanese addition. It's nothing like what he's used to, but he enjoys it.

Abigail eats her tiny portion of tomatoes with barely-concealed distaste, instead primarily focusing on the squash. 

"Don't like spice?" Will asks her, flashing another friendly smile. His smile rarely wins people over, but Abigail seems to like it enough. 

To his dismay, however, she immediately scowls in return. "No," she says. "Why would I?"

Will doesn't have much of an answer besides 'it tastes good,' so he keeps his mouth shut and takes another bite. It's not all that hot, but he can understand why a kid wouldn't like it.

"Spice is often a developed taste," Hannibal interjects. "Those who grow up eating it are more likely to crave foods with higher levels of capsaicin. That said, there are genetic factors that play can into it. I fear that Abigail has a predisposed aversion to spice."

"It's yucky," Abigail confirms.

Hannibal frowns, an expression that's more in his eyes than his mouth. It makes Will want to laugh; part of Hannibal's identity is clearly grounded in food, and his daughter's pickiness gets to him.

He wonders if Hannibal's been hired to cook for some exclusive event, and that's why he has to leave Abigail. It wouldn't surprise Will, given the man's abilities.

It doesn't feel right to just ask about it upright, though. Maybe some divulgence of his own will help.

"My father worked at a boatyard in New Orleans when I was a kid," he says, hoping Hannibal will appreciate the informational offering. "Cayenne and paprika were what made food worth eating. The heat made us sweat and helped us cooled down." He pauses and examines his plate, half empty now. "But when I was her age, I didn't enjoy it so much, and not just because I'm white as h--" 

He cuts off at Hannibal's raised eyebrow, pursing his lips. He knows not to swear around kids, but is 'hell' really one of the bad ones?

"Just saying she might grow out of it," he adds quickly, ducking his gaze down to his plate.

Abigail just harrumphs and takes a pointed bite of squash, and her blob of shakshuka is left untouched.

Tines down like the fancy bastard he is, Hannibal cuts into his egg, and the yolk leaks out. "I hadn't realized you were from Louisiana, Will," he remarks, making eye contact. "I've been meaning to explore Southern cuisine. Perhaps you could lend me a hand."

"Oh." Will laughs and quickly looks away again. It sounds like a peace offering, but he isn't sure he wants it. "I wouldn't know much about it." 

He lived off of Campbell's canned soup for most of his childhood. When he and his dad  _did_ eat something fresh and with a kick, they weren't involved with the preparation. David Graham could barely keep a sandwich from falling apart. 

Hannibal raises his eyebrows. "You needn't be an expert to taste it, Will." 

Will laughs again, nervous. He's not sure what Hannibal is suggesting, and he's not sure how he feels about it.

Technically, Hannibal is his boss. Sort of. When Will's babysitting his kid, at least.

It's not weird that heat is pooling in his cheeks. He takes another bite of  _shashuka._

"If you insist," he says, eyes averted, "I can try and help."

Hannibal smiles at him. It's almost imperceptible, compared to the wide beam on Abigail's face.

They chat for ten minutes more, until Hannibal kisses his daughter goodbye and hands Will another schedule for the day. 

He wants to ask Abigail what her father's off doing, but they spend the morning reading "Peter Rabbit" instead. They eat reheated stuffed cabbage for lunch, and the little girl serenades him in Lithuanian. 

Will finds himself taking in every detail of Hannibal's house, trying to use his gift of observation to glean something— _anything_ —about the man from his habitat. 

All he can figure is that Hannibal is incredibly wealthy, and even more devoted to accommodating Abigail's every need.

Nothing he didn't know already.

Abigail shows Will their record collection. Hannibal is old fashioned and likes classical music.

She takes him to the greenhouse again. Hannibal is a skilled gardener.

They spend the evening in the study again, and Abigail practices her art. Will watches idly over her shoulder, watching her color in what her father drew for her. There are nymphs and dragons and other fantastical creatures, all from Hannibal's hand and imagination.

He thinks about Hannibal's sketchbook, the one Abigail had used the day before.

He wonders what he would learn about him if he got to look through that.

He doesn't go through with it, though. He thinks of the nude woman he saw there, and chastises himself for his curiosity. It's not his place to get into Hannibal's head.

He usually works so hard to stay in his own headspace, and now that he's been presented with one he can't crack, it's irresistible. 

It's not ethical to be attracted to the father of the child he's babysitting, he tells himself. It doesn't even make  _sense._

Hannibal is an eligible single father. Women probably crawl all over him, and he probably  _loves_ it.

With a sinking realization, Will realizes that Hannibal is likely busy seeing a woman right now. He's not with his daughter because he's found someone to be serious with, and he wants to make sure of it before he brings her home.

He can see that clearly.

When he hears Hannibal's car pull into the driveway, he wishes he hadn't gotten the insight he was looking for, and rushes out the door without much of a goodbye for Abigail.

He feels bad, but with anxiety pricking at his skin, it wouldn't have done to stay behind, anyway.

Will reminds himself of the  _last_ time he was into someone, and tells himself that this wouldn't work out anyway. He's better off on his own. 

* * *

Hannibal spends the evening placating his distraught daughter.

"Why'd Will leave, Papa? Did you scare him?"

And he isn't sure. He honestly hopes not.

He wants to see Will again, and if he's spooked the man, he can hardly ask him over for dinner. The babysitting gig, it seems, could be all that's tying them together.

He told himself that he was done with Jack, but he feels his resolve slipping.

Hannibal tells himself that he's being irrational. He  _won't_ be continuing with the case, and he won't bother Will Graham again.

* * *

Tuesday morning, Will teaches his nine o'clock class without issue.

He keeps the Lecters in the back of his mind, focuses on the faces of his students, and keeps his hands on the wheel. He finds it easier to hold himself together when he puts himself into his work.

The nine o'clock class is the advanced group, so they leave him alone. They mutter to each other as they handle their own clay. Surprisingly, this group mostly prefers hand building, so Will is alone at the wheels.

When they leave, he manages to put the pieces that are ready into the kiln without issue. Hannibal and Abigail aren't in his thoughts, and he's fine. 

But then his eleven o'clock class shows up.

The eleven o'clock class is the kids class, and when he hears the first crystalline voice ringing through the studio, his thoughts immediately fly to Abigail. He wonders if she had breakfast with Hannibal, if he brought whatever woman he was seeing over for her to meet.

Once class starts, he's too busy scrambling to keep everyone from getting paint in their hair. Julian Lounds, a redheaded seven-year-old with a tongue sharp as broken ceramic pieces, keeps him on his toes.

That class ends, and in the lull of lunch break, he finds himself wondering if he should bring clay over next time he sees Abigail. Then he wonders if he'll see her again at all. 

Teachers from other departments at the institute start filling in, and soon, he's no longer alone.

Beverly Katz, one of the violin instructors and arguably his best friend, sits down next to him with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a plastic baggie. 

"Afternoon, champ," she says, slapping him on the shoulder. "How was the weekend?" 

He rubs at the point of contact, grimacing. "Fine," he answers. "I'm guessing you got laid."

She grins at him, nodding. "Mood's a dead giveaway?"

"Only because I know you so well," he says.

"No," she scoffs. "It's because you're perceptive." She opens up the bag and pulls out her sandwich, taking a decisive bite. "Sometimes, I swear you could've been a cop."

That makes him look down at his lap, smiling bitterly. "I used to want to be, you know. I studied Criminal Justice in college." 

He doesn't tell her the full of it. She knows him as the quiet ceramics instructor, not the New Orleans cop. Not the FBI reject. He would prefer that she think he's been quietly sculpting since his college years.

Beverly raises her eyebrows, swallows loudly. "You're full of secrets, Graham."

"I try," he mutters. "But it didn't work out, just so you know. Too unstable."

Kicked out of the force. She doesn't need to know.

Her face falls a little at that. "That wasn't as much of a secret," she says.

"No," he agrees. As his best friend, Beverly knows  _all_ about his instabilities.

"So," she says, taking another bite. "Wanna tell me what you did this weekend? Sorry I didn't call."

He shrugs. "I was gonna spend it on my own, anyway," he reminds her. 

"I'm guessing by your tone that you didn't get to."

"Zeller called."

"Oh, that's nice." Beverly sets down her sandwich and looks at him curiously. "He finally let you use that telescope of his?"

"He doesn't _own_ the Hubble, Bev."

She rolls her eyes. "I mean the one at his house," she says. "So, no telescope?"

"Didn't see him," he explains. "A friend of a friend was looking desperately for a babysitter. For a friend."

Beverly grins. "So, you were hired because you're the friend of a friend of a friend? How'd that go, friend?"

"Don't give me a headache," Will warns her. "But, yes, I did. Met him Saturday, took care of his daughter Sunday and Monday. She's a sweet kid."

"And the dad?" she presses, wickedly curious. "Doesn't sound like there's a mama in this equation."

Will sighs and looks away from her, doing his best not to sound disappointed. "I doubt he's single, Bev," he says. "And even if he was, you know I don't—I  _can't_ date."

 _"Ahem,"_ Beverly snaps, jabbing him with her elbow. "You  _can_ date. And I know you  _want_ to. So don't pull that."

He huffs and glares at her. "I'm not interested in him."

"Bullshit," she says. "You wouldn't babysit for someone you don't know unless you liked them."

"He pays a high rate," he retorts. "And he's a great cook."

He pauses after he says it, realizing it might not have been the best thing to bring up for this argument. 

"Aha!" She elbows him again. "You  _do_ like him. Tell me about his cooking."

He bites his lip, debating telling her to shut up and leave his traumatized ass alone, but gives in. It would feel nice to talk about crushes normally.

"He wouldn't approve of that PB&J," he says, smiling unabashedly. "He's all about quality ingredients. His kid doesn't even know what  _soda_ is, Beverly."

"Health nut?" she asks, frowning. The next bite of her sandwich is hesitant, and she looks at the wonder bread skeptically.

"Maybe. But he said he wants to try southern cooking, which isn't exactly that. I think he just really likes food." He licks his lips and remembers that vague offer, and some of his concerns melt. "I think he wanted to invite me over to cook, actually."

Beverly's grin is wide. "Ooh!" she exclaims. "Are you gonna go?"

"He hasn't asked me," he says, and folds his arms over his chest. "He might not at all. And I might not say yes." He gives her a pointed look, and the mood falls again.

She sighs. "It would be good for you," she says. "Kind of makes Brown the winner if you stay celibate, you know. You can't just become dormant. That's  _his_ thing now, the bastard."

Will clenches his eyes shut. The flashbacks don't hit him; it's been three years. He's fine.

But a sense of unease washes over him.

"There's a line between caution and paranoia, Will," she says.

He nods absently. She's right, of course, but he doesn't like it.

* * *

Wednesday morning, Abigail asks when she gets to see Will again.

Hannibal doesn't have an answer for that. He wonders when, too. He wants to see Will, for more than just breakfast before he rushes off to deal with one of Jack Crawford's evil minds.

She asks again at ten, during an impromptu art hour. Abigail has finger-painted a dog carrying a bouquet of orange flowers. Or, that's what she says it is. It looks a little... abstract.

Hannibal has spent the hour trying to draw Will's eyes from memory. They've haunted him more than he wants to admit, but he can't seem to get them right.

"I suppose we could ask him,  _mon chou,"_ he says. 

Will's nickname for her has stuck. He likes it. They both do.

"Please, Papa," she says, wiping her hands on her smock. 

And he can't say no to those puppydog eyes.

He pulls out his phone immediately, and sits through six rings in anticipation before Will picks up.

"Graham. Who's this?"

Hannibal is slightly disappointed his number hasn't been saved on Will's phone. What had happened if there was an emergency? Would Will have known how to contact him?

"Will, hello. This is Hannibal Lecter."

There's a moment of silence on the other end. Hannibal wonders if that's good or bad.

"Hi," he replies. "My class just ended. Something come up?"

"Yes, actually," Hannibal says, before he can stop himself. "My services are required in Virginia once more, I'm afraid."

"Oh." Will takes a breath. "Uh, I have two more classes today, but maybe you can drop Abigail off at the studio on your way?"

Hannibal finds his interest piqued. A studio? 

"I can do that," he says. "Do you have an address?"

Will gives it to him.

"Excellent," Hannibal says. "I'll see you in fifteen minutes."

On the car ride there, he realizes that, by proxy, he's agreed to continue working with Jack Crawford.

He'll have to come up with another place to be in Virginia if he doesn't want to see more mushroom corpses.

He won't lie to Will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I nabbed the term "gray-brown prairie grandmother" from [an Entertainment Weekly article](http://ew.com/article/2015/08/29/everything-hannibal-wore-hannibal/) devoted to showcasing everything that Hannibal wore during the show. Check it out for the commentary, fandom fashion references, and the quality images of Hannibal being a fashion god (or, as they described him, Shiva, god of death, with his jacket-tie pairing).
> 
> But, ah, in this universe Hannibal is a good guy and not wearing a tie doesn't hint at an impending act of evil.


	4. Chapter 4

The eleven o'clock class doesn't start for another half hour, and Will finds himself panicking. It's another kids class, and while there's no Julian Lounds to cause chaos today, he isn't sure how Hannibal will feel about leaving his daughter in what's essentially Graham's Hour-Long Daycare.

The studio is a mess, and he wants to scramble to clean it, but the studio is  _always_ a mess. Dozens of people inhabit the space daily, scattering clay and colored glazes and everything under the sun everywhere. 

He puts fresh paper over all the tables, opens a window to let in some of the chill, and startles when there's a knock on the doorframe.

He spins around, heart hammering, only to be soothed when he sees that it's Jimmy standing in the doorway, his daughter Chloe at his heel.

"Hey," Will says, and he'd nearly forgotten that Wednesday is the day that Chloe comes to class. 

"Salutations," Jimmy answers, eyebrows raised. He smiles as Chloe immediately runs to the rack of greenware to find last week's project. "Feeling frazzled?" he asks Will.

A shaky breath escapes him. "No more than usual," he lies, and he can't stop imagining Hannibal coming through the door, imagining Abigail at the greenware, staring up at one of her creations. 

"Sure." Jimmy crosses his arms and doesn't look convinced. "Mind if I drop Chloe off early? Brian left his lunch at home and I have to bring it to the observatory."

Will almost laughs; it's sweet and ridiculous that Jimmy has to bring Brian lunch.

Would Hannibal ever do that for him?

 _Of course not,_ he tells himself. 

But a quiet part of him hopes, and he's not sure why. He's never craved domesticity, and he hasn't craved anything else like that in some time.

"Of course," he says to Brian. "I've got another kid coming early today, too." He pauses, and decides that Jimmy won't berate him like Beverly will when she finds out. "The guy I babysat for this weekend?"

Jimmy doesn't berate him, but he does look stupefied.

"Hannibal Lecter is bringing his daughter to a  _public pottery class?"_

Will nods, swallowing. "Yes," he answers. "That's weird?"

"I've known Doctor Lecter for nearly a decade," he mutters, his brow knit. "He doesn't  _do_ this sort of thing."

Will had thought that Hannibal was just a friend-of-a-friend to the Zellers. "How do you know him?" he asks.

"Work," Jimmy answers. "I left the FBI a few years before he did, but we worked together for a while." A pause brings a smile to his face. "He's one of the best profilers I've ever seen."

Will's mouth goes dry.

"I gotta run," Jimmy says, not noticing Will's despair. "I'll pick Chloe up at noon, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Jimmy exits shortly, and Will exchanges brief greetings with Chloe. The girl is aloof, and that doesn't bode well for the day. She's likely going to stir up trouble.

"Just be on your best behavior, okay?" he asks her in a whisper. "I'm actually very stressed today."

Chloe doesn't answer, and Will sighs and retreats. He goes to prep the clay for class; there's no use in sitting idly.

A moment later, however, he sees Hannibal appear in the doorway. He's lacking the expected gravitas, instead clutching his daughter's hand and sweeping his gaze over the room in a panicked scrutiny. 

"Morning," Will calls, his voice  _almost_ catching in his throat.

"Good morning, Will!" Abigail exclaims, and tugs at her father's hand. 

He lets her go without much protest, looking deep in thought as he continues to survey his surroundings.

Abigail wraps herself around Will's legs in a hug, and he lets out a startled laugh. He pries her loose and crouches down to meet her excited gaze.

"Ready to make some art?" he asks her, grinning. "There's lots of clay to play with."

Abigail beams. "I've never played with clay."

Will looks past her, at her concerned father. He imagines not.

"Why don't you say hi to Chloe over there?" he asks her. "I'm going to talk to your papa."

Abigail looks hesitant, but the older girl grins at her with excitement and curiosity.

"Look at what I made!" Chloe exclaims, pointing to the a sculpture on the shelf, and Abigail putters over to join her with a shy smile.

Will rises to meet Hannibal at the doorway. "Everything alright?" he asks, and his thoughts fly to Jimmy's words. 

Hannibal is a profiler. Or, was. He isn't sure.

"Yes," Hannibal replies, his tone implying otherwise. "I ran into an old colleague at the entrance. Jimmy Price. A friend of yours?"

"The one that recommended me to you," Will tells him. "But he's Jimmy Zeller now."

Hannibal sighs. "That explains why I did not recognize the name when you mentioned him." 

Will nods. He wants to be tactful, but the words fly from his mouth before he can stop them.

"I didn't know you were FBI."

Face falling, Hannibal lets out a long exhale. "Not officially," he says. "And not since I adopted Abigail. Sans the past few days, of course." He looks bitter about it.

"And you're off to investigate today," Will guesses. A heavy dread fills him, but it's coupled with a keen interest. He wonders if Hannibal has a gift like his own.

"Unfortunately, yes," Hannibal answers. His gaze passes over Will's shoulder, and he watches Chloe batter his daughter with excited giggles and exclamations. "But Abigail is well off in your hands, I think."

"What about you?" Will blurts.

"In your hands?" Hannibal repeats, a tiny smile pressing over his features.

Heat once again gathers in Will's cheeks. "No," he corrects, quickly looking down at the cement floor. "Are you well? In general. I know these sort of things can weigh heavily on the mind."

He remembers his years on the force. Petty crimes were enough to fill his head with nightmares, to make him swim with the thoughts of strangers.

"Do you?" Hannibal hums, and his tone is almost  _crooning._

"Too well." Will presses his lips together, wondering when exactly Hannibal left the FBI. If he would have been on Matthew Brown's case.

Nothing to hint at any knowledge of it passes over Hannibal's face, and his expression instead turning to concern. "I forgot to pack food for you and Abigail," he confesses. "I'm afraid—"

"Don't worry about it." Will tries not to think about Jimmy bringing Brian lunch, about how he had just craved that sort of thing for himself.

Hannibal _would_ bring him lunch.

He tries not to grin.

"Are you certain?" Hannibal asks.

"I'll scrap something together," he assures him. "You've got a crime scene to get to."

His face falls once more. "Indeed."

Will wishes he could see the reason behind that dismal tone, but Hannibal is the one person he can't see through.

"I'm here until two," he says. "Text me when you think you can pick her up. If it's too late, I can take her back to my place."

"Oh, you needn't —"

"It's fine, Hannibal," Will promises, and he means it. He smiles and places a hand on Hannibal's shoulder.

The other man seems to melt away from the touch, stepping back through the doorway. "Thank you," he says shortly.

Will blinks, wonders if he's done something wrong.

"Good luck," he offers.

"To you as well."

Hannibal disappears down the hallway, and Will watches as he passes the other classrooms. 

He doesn't know what the hell he's going to do about it, but he  _really_ wants to impress him.

* * *

Hannibal's mouth feels like cotton when he gets into his car.

He doesn't know what the  _hell_ he was thinking, but now he's blatantly told Will that he's involved with an ongoing investigation with the FBI. Not only is it a gross breach of protocol, but it's a  _lie._

He does his best not to lie. It's against his moral code.

It's gotten him into enough trouble already.

With a sigh, he pulls his phone from his pocket and calls Jack Crawford.

* * *

The class with Abigail goes well. Chloe keeps her company, and the rest of the kids stick to their own friend groups.

Will shows them how to make coil pots. They're more the size of mugs, and none of the children can actually get theirs to any consistent thickness, so he just tells them that they're doing a great job.

If anyone asks for help, he gives it, and a few children manage to make decent shaped pots. Will lets them all paint theirs with the colored glazes, which he's just given up and started to call "paint."

Abigail asks for Will's help or opinion every five minutes or so, and even though he wants to coo over her hard work and admire her patience, he has an entire class to teach. He senses that she doesn't like sharing his attentions, and it becomes obvious once they're alone and she gives him the cold shoulder.

All the other children have been picked up by their parents, and Will has to eat lunch before his one o'clock class. 

But Abigail is stubborn in ignoring him. As much as he hopes it's not because she's mad at him, it would be worse if she were having another emotional issue.

"Abigail," he says, "do you want me to call your papa? I know it can be hard, being in big, loud groups like that."

She huffs at him and continues to dab red on her lopsided creation. The left side has caved in, but she doesn't seem mind.

"Can you talk to me, Abigail?" he asks, his worry threading deeper.

Hannibal hadn't mentioned what to do if Abigail got upset.

Then again, Hannibal had probably assumed it wouldn't happen if they had stayed at home. This is an eventuality neither of them prepared for.

Will sighs, and decides there's only one thing to do.

"It's lunch time," he says. "I didn't bring anything, and neither did your papa. Why don't we go to the kitchen and make something?"

Abigail perks up at that. She likes to cook.

"Yes, please," she says. She rises, wipes her hands with the ratty tee shirt on her lap, and leaves the red and blue coil-pot on the table. 

Will takes her hand and leads her into the staff kitchen. It's empty; most of the teachers at the art center pack their own lunches, or don't have to eat lunch on-site at all. 

Will is one of the few teachers who ever has both morning and afternoon classes. He just works to keep himself busy; he has plenty of money to sustain himself, between his mother's inheritance and the compensation from the NOPD after leaving the force.

Unfortunately, however, the kitchen is also void of fresh ingredients.

He opens a few of the cabinets until he sees a box on a top shelf. He has to hoist himself up on the counter to reach it, and he tells Abigail not to follow his example.

The box is Kraft macaroni and cheese, not past expiration date, and Will is momentarily grateful because at least it's  _kid food._

And then he remembers that Abigail has probably never even  _heard_ of boxed mac and cheese. 

But it's all he's got, and he's willing to give it a try.

* * *

Hannibal has just finished relaying his revelation that their mushroom farmer is a pharmacist when his phone rings.

Jack glares at him, as if he's responsible for the noise.

"Let's get moving, Hannibal," he says. "I want you to be there when we catch him."

Lip twitching, Hannibal checks the caller I.D.

"It's about Abigail," he says. "I have to answer."

Glowering, Jack gives him a look that says,  _You have two minutes._

He picks up immediately, partially because he wants to check on his daughter, and primarily because he wants an excuse to drag out this case any futher.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Hannibal. It's Will."

Yes, yes, he knows,  _he_ had the decency to save Will's contact information. 

"Will, hello. Is all well with Abigail?"

"Peachy," Will assures him.

Hannibal can't detect a lie there, and some of his tension eases. "Is there a reason you called?"

"Just letting you know I took Abigail to my place when you didn't call," he says. "I'll text you the address so you can pick her up when you're done."

"My apologies for not calling," he says, and curses himself for his negligence. At least, he decides, he'll get to see Will's home.

"Not an issue," Will says. "You're hard at work. I get it."

He doesn't  _want_ to be hard at work, though. He would much rather be tending to his daughter.

"Did your class go well? Abigail can sometimes struggle in groups."

"Oh, yeah. It was fine." The jarring squeak of a neglected hinge punctuates Will's words. "She made a little coiled pot, then we had lunch and I made her some Kraft macaroni, and then she sat through the adult class—"

Hannibal blinks. "I'm sorry. What?"

"Oh, I had an adult class, and she sat in the back and —"

"No,  _before_ that. You made her  _what?"_

There's a moment of puzzled silence on Will's end.  "Kraft macaroni?" he supplies.

Breath escapes Hannibal like a deflating balloon, and he pinches the bridge of his nose as he feels an approaching headache. "Dear god."

"No, it was fine!" Will says. "She really liked it, actually. I know she's a picky eater, but she liked it!"

_ "Dear god," _  Hannibal repeats, and he realizes that all the time he's spent refining Abigail's palate might have gone to waste.

Once she's tasted the devil's fruit, there can be no going back.

"Hannibal?" Will asks, cutting through his thoughts.

"I'm fine," he promises, and takes a deep breath. "I'll be over as soon as I can. There are a few remaining things to attend to here."

"Okay," Will says. 

There's a smile in his voice that Hannibal _cannot_ handle at the moment. 

"We're making peach cobbler for dinner," he continues. "I didn't really have much else in the kitchen besides canned peaches and baking ingredients."

Hannibal can't hear much more. "I'll join you shortly," he grinds out. "Tell Abigail I love her dearly, and that nothing is  _ever_ her fault."

Will laughs. "Okay. See you," he says, and hangs up.

Hannibal takes a deep breath before turning to face Jack.

"Everything okay?" Jack asks.  His arms are crossed and his face is pulled into a scowl. 

He doesn't want an answer; Hannibal knows that, and he answers anyway.

"Everything has gone to hell," he answers, and he  _means_ it. "I don't think I will be emotionally capable of handling an arrest. I need to ensure that my daughter is returned to capable hands  _immediately."_

Jack grimaces. "Hannibal. I'm sure it's fine."

"No, Jack," Hannibal snaps. "Abigail is my foremost priority. Good luck with the arrest."

He storms out the door before Jack can stop him, on a mission to rescue his daughter before she's dragged any further into the culinary gutter.

* * *

Abigail throws a slobbery tennis ball for Winston in the backyard, giggling as the big dog leaps around in joy.

Will smiles, knowing that there's no better pair in the world than a child and a dog. Their energies compliment each other perfectly, and the sound of Abigail's laughter fills him with a joy he's missed for some time.

He can't quite place when he felt it last, but it's probably been a very long time.

Five o'clock in October makes for golden lighting, and paired with the smell of peach cobbler coming from inside the house, it creates a strikingly nostalgic atmosphere. 

The sound of a car door in the front yard startles Will, and Winston abandons his play to perk his ears towards the sound. They don't have visitors often, and so the dog is wary.

"It's probably your papa," he says to Abigail. "Let's go."

They cross through Will's cramped and untidy home, Winston at their heels. They answer the door just as Hannibal knocks, opening it to reveal Hannibal, a looking consternated. 

"Abigail," he breathes out, and immediately kneels to pull her into a hug.

She lets out a squeal as he holds her close, and Winston licks at Hannibal's hand in the little girl's hair.

Will smiles at the picture they paint, and he wonders if Hannibal is always this dramatic, or if it's simply because he's been working on a stressful case.

He feels awkward after it goes on for another minute, though, and clears his throat. 

"The cobbler's almost ready," he says, already backing away into the kitchen.

Abigail wriggles free of her father's grasp immediately. "Yes!" she exclaims. "Papa, you have to try some. Will and I made it!"

Will looks over his shoulder to catch Hannibal's wary expression as he stands. 

"Wonderful," he mutters. "Will made it."

Knowing this has to do with the mac and cheese, Will isn't sure whether to smile or be concerned. It can't be  _that_ big of a deal, can it?

He goes to pull the cobbler out of the oven, and the old hinges screech as he opens it. He can  _feel_ Hannibal's wince, but Abigail's glee makes up for it. 

He serves the three of them on mismatched plates, and he feels immensely pleased when Hannibal is forced to eat his entire serving when Abigail pressures him. Will imagines he wants to let loose like a judge on  _Chopped,_ but he's spared the criticism.

Abigail has to be dragged out of the door by Hannibal, though Will helps with some of the pushing. He doesn't want Hannibal being  _too_ upset with him.

Still. 

He can't stop smiling, even after the two of them are gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ain't Hannibal a dramatic little shit?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["humble" mac n cheese](http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/3-cheese-macaroni-and-cheese-recipe-1948199)
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> sorry i've taken so long to update. college apps have really been kickin me in the ass. gotta do real good in classes to get good recommendations

Hannibal has been unable to smile since he brought Abigail home from Will's house.

It's abundantly clear that her palate has been  _ruined._ She refuses to eat half of his cooking. 

It's been a _two days_ , and he's  _trying_ to cook dinner, but his daughter's taste buds have been soiled by Will Graham's profane excuse for "cooking" and it's impossible to please her.

"Darling," he pleads, and he only calls her  _darling_ when he's lost his patience, "I promise this will be  _better_ than what made you."

Abigail scowls at the dish about to go into the oven.

"Will made his on the stove," she counters.

_Will's came from a box and was loaded with artificial flavors._

Hannibal sighs. This is not Abigail's fault, and he won't let his frustration out on her.

"It will taste better this way," he says.

He hasn't made macaroni and cheese in years, and even then, he used truffle oil. This is more humble, with cheddar and asiago and local cream.

The dairy-loaded concoction is something he would never willingly put in his body. It's grossly American on top of that, but Abigail has demanded to eat macaroni and cheese all day, so it's all he can do to placate her.

When it comes out of the oven, crisp with panko breadcrumbs, she doesn't even consider it.

"It smells wrong," she announces, and turns her nose up.

Hannibal scowls and curses Will Graham.

* * *

Will's last class gets out at noon on Friday.

It's been three days since he last saw Hannibal and Abigail, and they've both been on his mind for a majority of that time.

So, after he's finished teaching disenchanted pharmaceutical salesmen and only mildly creepy dental hygienists how to "add texture" to their pieces, he's out the door running. 

Beverly catches him in the lobby as he's scrambling for his car keys in his pocket.

"Whoa there, boy," she says, and grabs him by the shoulder, stopping him abruptly. "What's got you in a hurry?"

He looks over her shoulder and entertains the idea of just running past her so she doesn't have the opportunity to tease him, but he knows it will only make his situation worse.

Better to just lie.

"Taking take Winston to the vet," he says, and realizes he's bouncing on his heels too late.

"Right," lilts Beverly, raising an eyebrow. "Bright eyed and bushy tailed for the vet."

He offers a smile, but he knows it looks forced. "Gotta get those shots done on time," he says. He laughs nervously, because damn it all.

Beverly smiles wide as she clamps down on her bottom lip, like she's trying to hold something in. "Alright, champ," she says, and releases his shoulder. "Shots were due in June. It's been five months. What's  _really_ going on here?"

"Hot vet?" he offers.

"Hot as that guy that came in looking for you Tuesday?" she counters.

Will curses himself, and Beverly laughs. 

"There you go," she says, and claps his shoulder in a painful congratulations. "I wasn't gonna ask you about it until I had more evidence... but is this the guy who you babysat for?"

"What do you think?" he demands.

He just wants to get  _out_ of the studio. He can deal with Beverly later. 

"Fine, fine," she sighs. "But you're telling me all about this later, _capisce?"_

Even though he doesn't really mean it, Will scowls at her. "Fine," he concedes, and darts out the door.

He hops into the car, picks up Winston from his house, and doesn't even consider his game plan until he's already in front of Hannibal's house and halfway to the door.

He'd spent so much time just  _thinking_ that he hadn't even considered what the hell he was going to do.

His step falters, but he realizes he can't exactly turn back now. 

Besides, Winston is already at the doorstep and whining for Will to join him. He sighs and tries to straighten himself, but doesn't have much time. 

The door opens, and Hannibal is there in a gray plaid suit. The magenta tie makes it work for him, and Will can't believe he's even thinking that and—

Hannibal looks down at Winston, and then at Will.

"Generally," he announces, dripping with exasperation, "I do ask people make appointments before arriving at my home."

Before Will can offer an apology, or call Winston and turn tail, Hannibal lets out a sigh and pats the dog on the head.

"That said, I sprung Abigail upon you without warning, so I suppose I can allow the transgression. All is forgiven."

Will smiles and lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He wonders if that applies to the blunder with the food, too.

"Thanks," he says, and makes the last stretch to the door.

Winston runs inside before he can be stopped. Hannibal doesn't do anything about it, and just waits for Will. His face is entirely neutral, impossible to read.

"However," he adds, setting a heavy hand on Will's shoulder, "from here on out,  _I_ handle the food."

Will swallows.

Hannibal surprises him and cracks a smile. He steps aside, welcoming Will in.  

* * *

Abigail latches onto Will's hand and doesn't let go for the first half hour.

Hannibal allows it and spares himself the surge of jealousy. Instead, he sits back and surreptitiously sketches Will and Abigail from his spot on the couch, wondering what he's meant to do with himself when his daughter has so obviously imprinted onto someone else.

The two of them are sat on the floor, exchanging battered French. Abigail was in the middle of her language lessons when Will's car pulled into the driveway, but she thankfully hadn't noticed right away, giving Hannibal some time to get the door. 

By the time Hannibal brought Will inside, however, she had come downstairs and set up her work on the floor of the sitting room. 

He wonders if she would have become attached to just any sitter, but somehow, he doubts it.

His frustration after the Kraft Incident has faded into a quiet scrutiny. Will's presence has provided Hannibal with several new opportunities, and he has yet to determine which one best serves his needs.

Abigail's comfort around the man lends to the possibility of Hannibal reopening his practice. He could hire Will as a more permanent sitter and resume seeing patients at his office.

However, the thought bores him. He would rather spend time raising his daughter than dealing with the mundane problems of lesser minds, and the thought of being the kind of father that depends on a  _nanny_ to raise his child repulses him.

The second option is to befriend Will Graham, just enough so that Hannibal might keep an eye on him. Invite him to dinner and engage like adults, perhaps, but mainly to keep him around as a positive adult influence in Abigail's life.

He might even send Abigail to his pottery class to further expand her social circle. He's begun to suspect that Will is very good at calculating his daughter's needs, and Hannibal therefore thinks he can trust Will to watch over her in that situation. 

But there is a third, more enticing option. Hannibal has yet to fully determine the risks of such a thing, and has been working very hard to think rationally about it. 

The issue with that, however, is that he finds he can't think rationally about it at all.

So, he's locked the thought away. He doesn't want to scare Will off and hurt Abigail. 

But, he reckons, it might be safer to scare Will off now than do so later. Abigail's attachment to him has not yet fully formed. It's merely an infatuation.

His own intentions, however, could very well be of the same nature. Who's to say that these whims of his disappear once it's too late?

How would Abigail cope then?

He stares down at his sketchbook in a frustration. The page consists entirely of Will Graham, so intense was Hannibal's focus on him.

Perhaps, he thinks, it would be better to send Will off now. Spare them all the severity of his feelings. 

He looks up, thinking of a reason to invite Will to leave. An appointment, an emergency...

But he can't  _lie._ Lying has never done anything good for him. 

Will glances over and catches his eye, a wide smile on his face. Hannibal realizes that he's been staring, but he can't look away. He doesn't  _want_ to look away. 

 _This is unfortunate,_ he thinks, and quickly looks back down on his paper. He pretends to focus on anything that isn't Will, but he's staring up at him from the page, too. 

He watches as surreptitiously as he can as Will leans over to Abigail, murmuring something to her. She responds immediately with an enthusiastic nod, and then gets to her feet and darts away.

Hannibal blinks.

"Where is she going?"

"I told her Winston was feeling lonely out in the back yard," Will answers, and pushes himself off of the floor. "They'll be playing for a little while."

"It's cold outside," counters Hannibal, shutting his sketchbook. He's already planning to chase after her, save her and free himself from any awkward conversation. 

Will plants himself next to him, leaving no room for him to argue. "She'll be fine," he promises, gesturing for Hannibal to remain seated. "I told her to get her coat."

"Well." Hannibal swallows. He's unsure if he's ready to be left alone with Will without Abigail as a buffer. "How thoughtful," he says, his mouth dry. 

"I try," Will laughs. They're sat _very_ close together. "Maybe not as thoughtful as you, though. Sorry about the mac 'n cheese, by the way. It was all we had at the studio." His smile is conciliatory, lighting up his eyes so that they nearly glow. 

Hannibal folds his hands in his lap. "It was an unfortunate oversight, on both of our accounts," he admits. "I've been unable to placate her appetite since."

"I'm not surprised. Kids like simplicity," Will tells him, throwing his arm on the back of the couch. It doesn't touch Hannibal's shoulders. "I don't expect my students to appreciate Donatello. They're happy to make lumpy and colorful sculptures, and I'm okay with that, because they're kids."

"Are you telling me how to parent?" Hannibal inquires, glancing at Will from the corner of his eye. It doesn't come off as cooly as he had expected it to.

"No, not at all," Will promises, pursing his lips, flashing his gaze away from Hannibal. "Just saying it might help to lower your expectations. I get that you're a gourmand, but maybe try building Abigail's tastes from the bottom up."

"The bottom being prepackaged meals?"

"Doesn't have to be. She likes plain foods. You can make those from scratch."

Hannibal lets out a sigh. "I do believe I said we'd leave the food to me, Will."

"Fair enough," answers Will. "Sorry. Got anything else to talk about? I don't really know what you like otherwise." He shifts his arm so his hand touches Hannibal's shoulder.

It's friendly. Hannibal can do friendly. 

Maybe. 

If it's just friendly.

"You and I are artists," he answers, offering a slight smile. "We share common ground there."

Will's laugh is awkward, but the skin around his eyes crinkle and it's genuune. "I've seen your sketches, if you recall," he counters, the words forming around a smile. "You're like Da Vinci reincarnated—a Renaissance man. I just teach people how to make lumpy pots and plates." 

The juxtaposition of praise and self deprecation in his voice would have made Hannibal squirm, had it come from a patient. From Will, though, it's endearing. Flattering, even.

He feels himself relax, and he crosses his legs as he turns to look at Will. "I would have thought false modesty was beneath you," he tuts. "You bring art to the people that need it most."

"Well." Will bites his lower lip, clearly trying to find something to say.

"I'm sure you create art of your own, as well," Hannibal adds, and leans back slightly so Will's hand has a more solid place on his shoulder, telling himself it's fine because it's _friendly_. "Do you sculpt, Will? You mentioned Donatello."

"My work doesn't hold a candle to anything like that," Will answers, looking down at his lap, a shy smile hanging on his mouth. "It's more of a hobby that became a profession, really. I'm not the greatest."

"Ah. And what was it that drove you to first handle clay?"

Will looks up, hesitance betrayed in the way he catches his lip in his teeth. "Your friend Doctor Bloom, actually," he says. "She suggested I try something new for therapy. I took a ceramics class at the studio, and I've been working there for almost two years now." 

"I wasn't aware you were one of Alana's patients," Hannibal says.

He's surprised, actually. Alana usually only takes in patients that have been referred to her by the FBI. He can't imagine how Will would be connected, and feels uncomfortable when he tries to imagine how. 

"It's not something I advertise," Will concedes. He's begun gnawing on his lip. "Usually, it makes people associate me with a certain brand of crazy."

Will's gaze drops to the hand in his lap, and Hannibal's eyes follow them. Clay has built up beneath his fingernails and clings to the cuticles. The lines in his fingers, too, contain the vestiges of dry clay, turned more into a pale gray powder. Hannibal wonders if he simply neglected to properly scrub his hands, or he's given up on freeing himself of the evidence of his work at this point. 

"I don't believe in branding crazy," he replies, wanting very much to take that hand in his own, knowing very well that he shouldn't. "Most reputable psychiatrists don't."

The hand in Will's lap contracts into a fist, and the one on the back of the couch retracts to join the other.

"I didn't know you were a psychiatrist."

Something clenches within Hannibal in response. "I had assumed it was obvious," he says, fighting and failing to hide a frown. "Though, I have mostly retired from it since I adopted Abigail."

"Oh." Will blinks and crosses his arms. "But you were profiling for a case."

"A rare occurrence. I don't lend out my skills often."

Will nods, then, seeming to take in the new information. "You don't  _seem_ like a shrink," he admits, hands flattening out in his lap, splayed over his thighs. "You've barely tried to pry my head open at all."

"Why would I?" Hannibal argues. "I'm not  _your_ psychiatrist."

Relief pools in him when Will's posture loosens and he looks Hannibal in the eye again. 

"Okay," he says. "That's fair. Don't start trying to be, either." 

"I wouldn't dare," Hannibal chuckles. "My curiosity with you does not breach the professional realm."

He wants to place his hand over Will's, to lace their fingers together, to establish contact, but it's too risky. The safest, most satisfactory option is to keep Will as a friend for both him and Abigail.

"That's certainly a good thing," Will says, smiling again, and  _oh_ does it reach his eyes. 

Hannibal barely notices when Will's hand somehow ends up on top of his own, and when it does, he jolts but doesn't manage to pull his hand away. He doesn't want to be  _rude,_ after all. 

"It's been some time," he says, turning to look out the window. "I should check on Abigail."

* * *

Hannibal invites Will to stay for dinner, which only makes him stew in confusion.

On one level, Will is absolutely  _certain_ that Hannibal is attracted to him. He sees it in his eyes, his body language, the way he speaks with him. 

On another level, Hannibal seems to be shutting Will down every time he makes a move. And Hannibal is impossible to read.

Despite what Beverly seems to think, Will isn't bad at flirting. A perk of his empathy disorder is that he knows whether or not his advances are welcome, and quite often he can determine exactly how his counterpart will prefer those advances to be directed. He can get laid when he wants, get a date when he actually thinks he can tolerate someone. 

But Hannibal is a piece of work, and Will can't make heads or tails of what he's feeling. 

Does he want Will to stick around because he needs help getting Abigail to cooperate? Or because he's interested in Will beyond is kid-handling skills?

What Will knows is that  _he_ wants Hannibal to be into him, and that doesn't make things any better. Whatever Hannibal wants, it makes Will more likely to play into it without getting any benefit in return.

Hannibal lets Will help cook dinner; it gets Abigail to be more enthusiastic about eating. Will kneads the flatbread dough like it's clay; he assumes the process is fairly similar. He feels Hannibal's eyes on him the whole time, gaze focused on his hands.

For a moment, he's proud of his strong hands, and hopes Hannibal appreciates them. When he stands behind him, close and warm, Will almost expects a flirtatious compliment.

"Your kneading technique is off," Hannibal says instead. "The texture of the bread is going to be tough."

Will can't help but frown as he retracts his hands from the dough. "What am I doing wrong?"

Hannibal reaches around him, taking his wrists. 

"The point of kneading is to  _add_ air to the dough. You seem to be doing the opposite. It's overworked." He begins guiding Will's hands in a different motion, sure and strong. 

"Guess that's my problem," Will answers, a little too breathily. "No such thing as overworking clay, in my mind. Compression gets the air out; makes it hold better on the wheel and less likely to crack in the kiln."

Hannibal doesn't touch Will anywhere besides his hands and arms, keeping a respectable distance between them. It doesn't keep Will from feeling fired like clay.

"Perhaps I should do the kneading, then," sighs Hannibal, and he pulls away. "I wouldn't want to force you contradict your methods."

Will wants to argue that his skill set is dynamic, that his hands are good for more than just working clay, but he's been shut down once already and doesn't want to test his luck.

He takes the overworked dough and molds it into lumpy animal-esque figures, which Abigail insists they bake. She eats those instead of the flatbread, but Hannibal is satisfied when she lets him arrange toppings on her plate to pick from.

Will makes her smile, and it makes Hannibal smile, too. Both of them make Will happy.

When Hannibal places a lingering hand on his shoulder as he steps out the door, he can't determine which way he's being manipulated. 

Is Hannibal playing with Will's emotional attachment to get him to help with Abigail? Or is he using Abigail as an excuse to keep Will around?

Will tells himself he doesn't care, that he's not _that_ invested and he won't be played.

But when Hannibal removes his hand and Will goes back to the car, Winston at his heels, he knows he's screwed.

Maybe in a good way, but he'll have to see Hannibal fully to know for sure.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a reminder that everyone is Gay with a capital G, i make the rules

On Sunday, Hannibal has Alana and Margot over for brunch. 

Their children come too, of course. Gabriel and Heather are only a year older than Abigail, and the three of them get along quite well together. Their table manners are decidedly lacking, but overall, the company makes up for it. 

After they eat, Hannibal and the mothers sip mimosas in the back yard, bundled in coats but still trying to soak up the remainder of the October sun. 

"So," Alana says. She raises her eyebrows at Hannibal, mischief in her sparkling eyes. "Will, huh?"

Hannibal tilts his head. "Pardon?" he asks. He doesn't remember mentioning the man.

Margot snorts, but hides her grin behind her drink glass. Alana shoots her a look, adding, "Abigail mentioned someone named Will. A few times, actually." She pauses, waiting for Hannibal to fill in the blanks.

"Ah. Yes." Hannibal crosses his legs. "The sitter that your friends recommended. The Zellers, yes?"

He doesn't want to give them any wrong ideas, so he decides to omit any extra information. It's better to act oblivious. What he may or may not feel for Will Graham is entirely inconvenient, and all too risky. He does not need the two of them latching onto the idea and encouraging it.

"Yeah," Margot says, nodding. "Brian never mentioned who they sent you, though. I'm guessing he did a good job, though. Abby seems to like him."

Hannibal purses his lips but doesn't admonish her for the nickname; it's harmless enough. He can imagine, though, why the Zellers never told Margot or Alana about Will, considering the fact that Will saw Alana for therapy.

"They do get along," he answers. He swallows the remainder of his glass and stands. "Shall I get us more?"

Alana raises her eyebrows again. "Sit back down, Hannibal," she says, patting his seat. "I know your deflection tactics."

"There's nothing to deflect," he assures her, and looks to where the children are playing make-believe in the grass. He hopes that they find a frog in the grass or present some other distraction to end the discussion.

Margot and Alana share a look, one that he senses is disapproval.

"The bottle isn't yet empty," Hannibal says, glancing at their empty glasses. 

"Go on, then," Margot mutters, waving him off.

He takes the glasses and carries them into the kitchen. While he busies himself with cleaning the glasses and refilling them, he tries to come up with another conversation topic. 

He can ask them for suggestions regarding Abigail's next reading unit, he thinks, but then remembers their last Christmas present for Abigail. It was collection of books about an enormous red dog, and it had next to zero substance. They won't prove very helpful in that area.

Before he's able to come up with an idea, he hears Abigail, and she's using her  _excited_ voice. And lately, that voice has been reserved for one subject.

He lets out a full-body sigh and prepares himself for the situation he'll have to deal with back outside by pouring a little extra champagne into his own glass. 

"...and last night, he made animal breads at dinner!" 

Margot meets Hannibal's eye as he rejoins them. With a devious smirk, she mouths,  _Dinner?_

He hands them their glasses and sits back down, smiling at Abigail with all the patience in the world. "Are we talking about Will, my sweet?"  

She nods eagerly at him, but turns to look at Alana again. "He has a big dog, too! His name is Winston, and he lets me hug him, and he's much nicer than Applesauce—"

Alana laughs at that. "Winston, or Will?"

"Both!" Abigail answers immediately.

Hannibal takes a large swallow of his drink and glares at Margot. He blames  _her_ for this, encouraging him to leave so she could manipulate his daughter into sharing the information he would have otherwise withheld.

Margot pokes her tongue at him, subtly so the children won't see, and then addresses Abigail. "Does your papa like Will, too, Abby?"

Of course, Abigail nods and grins outright. "Mmmhm! They talk a lot, and _tėtis_  has drawn him a lot of times, too. He makes Will look very pretty."

Hannibal chokes on his mimosa, barely containing a spit take. He pulls his handkerchief from his pocket and begins dabbing at the dribble on his chin, but the damage has been done. Margot's hand flies to her mouth, poorly hiding her amusement, and Alana just blinks.

"Abigail," she says, pointing over her shoulder, "I think Gabe's found something in the grass. Why don't you go look with him?"

The girl frowns for a moment, clearly wanting to talk more about Will, but scampers off to join her friends. Hannibal watches her, trying to figure out what on  _earth_ he's supposed to say after that.

After a moment of Alana and Margot staring at him, he settles with, "I don't know how she got into my sketches. I keep them on a high shelf."

"Right," Margot snorts. "Wouldn't want her finding your erotic drawings of her babysitter, would you?"

Hannibal shoots her his best death glare. "They are  _not_ erotic," he snaps, setting his drink on the table with a  _clink_. "I find his features pleasantly challenging to capture. He has a classical look about him, that's all."

Alana nods, taking a deep breath. She looks as though she's switched into her therapist mode.

"And does Will know you're drawing him?" she presses.

"I would assume not," he answers. He feels his cheeks warming, flushed with embarrassment. 

Margot doesn't laugh this time, instead sharing another glance with her wife. They both look concerned this time, and it unsettles him. Margot clears her throat and mutters something about using the toilet and gets up to leave.

When they're alone, Alana leans towards Hannibal, resting on the arm of her chair. "I'm assuming you're interested in him," she says, and purses her lips in a semblance of a frown. "Romantically?"

Swallowing, Hannibal looks down at his hands. He thinks of Will's, how they would look lovely coated in clay and equally so wrapped around his own. 

"Perhaps," he admits.

For a moment, Alana is silent, contemplative. Hannibal stews in the emotions he's trying so desperately to subdue before she speaks up again.

"I think it's best to be direct with Will Graham," she murmurs.

He knows he hasn't mentioned Will's last name, that Abigail wouldn't have. He sighs, then, wondering where she put it all together.

"Are you speaking as my friend, Alana, or as Will's former therapist?" 

She lets out a weak laugh, more of a breath. "He mentioned me, did he?"

"He isn't fond of psychiatrists," Hannibal answers. 

"But he must be fond of you," she says, "considering the fact that he's come back here a number of times. Payment or no, Will rarely spends time with people he doesn't enjoy."

Hannibal bites the inside of his cheek as he realizes that Will never reminded him to pay him back for his services. He should do that, next time they see each other.

"Will's a complicated man, Hannibal," Alana tells him. "He's had a rough past, and he doesn't appreciate mind games. If you're interested in him, you should establish that sooner than later."

"No." Hannibal shakes his head, fights back another sigh. "I can't. I can't have feelings for Will. You must understand that, Alana." 

She doesn't say anything, instead looking at him with those shining eyes of hers. He knows he's meant to elaborate, and grits his teeth. This is not a discussion he's had with anyone other than Bedelia, and  _she_ had mocked him for it.

Granted, they were both quite drunk, and Hannibal knows rationally it would have gone better had they been sober. He decides it won't hurt to share with Alana, despite the mimosas.

"I have consistently proven incapable of maintaining steady relationships," he tells her, wringing his hands in his lap. "I can rarely remain with someone in any romantic or sexual capacity for longer than a few months, at best, before I grow tired of them." 

He looks up and watches the children. Heather holds a praying mantis in her hand, and both Abigail and Gabriel shriek in delight and horror at the sight of it. 

Tears prick at his eyes, and Alana places a hand on his arm.

"You know Abigail likes Will," she says, "and you don't want to chase him off. For her sake. It's safer to remain friends."

He nods, feeling heavy all of a sudeen. "I haven't seen anyone since adopting her. Before that, actually. If things go badly with Will, it would hurt her."

"Will you be hurting yourself by keeping things platonic with Will?" she asks, squeezing his forearm gently. "Kids are tougher than you'd think, Hannibal. It might be worth a shot, if you really want it."

"Don't be ridiculous." Hannibal draws himself away from her, standing with a deep breath. "I am perfectly capable of controlling myself."

"Bottling things up isn't healthy, Hannibal..."

"I'm not bottling anything up," he says, and he tells himself that he means it, too. 

* * *

Sunday evening, Will gets a text from Hannibal.

_Abigail has insisted that you join us for lunch tomorrow. Are you free?_

Of course, Will is free. He doesn't have work on Mondays, and Beverly does, so it's not like he has anything to do besides play fetch with Winston. 

He texts back only a minute later.

_Of course :) see you at eleven._

* * *

Lunch is Hannibal's homemade pumpkin gnocchi, which Abigail eats with more gusto than Will has ever seen.

"Is pumpkin your favorite, Abigail?" he asks, spearing a piece off of his place. He's never been a gnocchi kind of guy, but this is good. Anything Hannibal makes is bound to be good.

"Mmhmmp." Abigail nods, her cheeks full as a chipmunk's. 

Will notes that Hannibal doesn't say anything about her manners; he's likely just grateful that she's enjoying it.

"Then I guess your papa will have to make it more often," he says, meeting Hannibal's gaze with a raised eyebrow.

Hannibal returns the look and cuts into his gnocchi like a real gentleman. "The pumpkins in the garden will be ready to harvest, soon," he says. "There will certainly be plenty more."

Abigail looks up at him. Through a mouthful, she says, "Don't use them all at once,  _teti."_

Will glances at Hannibal and thinks of the man's propensity to create in excess. His meals are always extravagant, and he cooks so often that Will doubts he rarely gets to the leftovers. Hannibal's lips purse in response to his daughter, and Will wonders what it means.

"I'll try not to,  _mon chou."_

She grins at him, and Will notices the nickname as his own. He wonders when Hannibal picked it up, and he grins, too. 

After they're finished eating, Abigail goes back out to the yard to play with Winston, and Will goes to the kitchen to help Hannibal clean. There's certainly a lot of food left over. 

"What do you do with all of it, anyway?" Will asks, dishing gnocchi into a glass storage container. 

Hannibal's hands twitch some, the only indication that he's agitated or uncomfortable. He picks up a sponge and begins to scrub at their dishes.

"I have a cellar in the basement," he says, glancing at Will over his shoulder. "I store most of my ingredients there, but I also have a freezer where I keep the food I've prepared." He swallows and continues cleaning. "I rarely resort to it, so I donate it to a local soup kitchen."

Will doesn't say anything, just watches. He senses some buried emotion; there's more to the story. 

Hannibal turns off the water and sets down the clean plate. Clearing his throat, he says, "I know what it's like to be hungry."

Though he doesn't know much about psychology, Will knows how trauma can manifest. He doesn't know what happened to Hannibal, but he understands. He moves to stand next to Hannibal, their shoulders brushing. He looks up and offers a comforting smile.

"Once," he says, offering a small part of himself, "I made a mistake, and it hurt the people I loved. Now, I put my all into making them happy, because I don't want that to happen again."

Just like Hannibal didn't blatantly admit to food hoarding, Will doesn't say that he lets people walk all over him. He doesn't want to share the details of the story, either; the less that Hannibal knows about Matthew Brown, the better.

But Hannibal seems to get the message anyway, and offers a smile.

"I hope you understand, Will, that you don't have to give in to what I want." 

Will nudges him with his elbow, smirking. "Is that permission for me to give Abigail soda?"

Hannibal gives him an incredulous look, seemingly a second away from doing something like shoving Will onto the ground. He must recognize the teasing glint in Will's eyes, though, because he snorts.

"Boundaries, Will."

Will laughs and leans himself against Hannibal. Maybe it's too flirtatious, maybe it crosses another boundary, because Hannibal steps to the side, his features knitting together in something like concern.

"That reminds me," he says, reaching into his pocket. "I haven't yet paid you for your work."

He hands Will a few paper bills—five hundred dollars. More than what he had actually worked for. He frowns, staring at the money in confusion. 

"This is too much."

Hannibal puts his wallet back in his pocket, silently telling Will not to bother protesting. "I've included extra for the rest of the time you've spent here. It was only appropriate."

Will almost bristles, but it's more because of the cold settling at his gut than actual animosity. "Appropriate?" he parrots. "I came here as your friend, Hannibal. I wasn't babysitting  _you."_

"I hired you, Will. I wouldn't want you to leave empty handed."

"Empty handed?" he scoffs. "Hannibal, I don't need your money. I might not live in a mansion like you, but I  _do_ have time to spend outside of work. For leisure purposes." 

Hannibal crosses his arms over his chest. He doesn't say anything.

"Hannibal," Will snaps, stepping up and into his personal space. "Don't pay me. I'm here because I  _like_ you."

He's pretty sure he's all jacked up on adrenaline, now, because his pulse is hammering like his heart has jumped into his throat. He looks up at Hannibal, glaring into his eye, and he just starts to feel colder and colder the longer Hannibal looks at him. 

Finally, Hannibal backs off, returning to the dishes like nothing had happened. Will watches him, confused and upset, until he goes off to spend time with Abigail.

Maybe Will's not here because he likes Hannibal. Maybe he's here because Abigail likes Will.

* * *

Hannibal tries to still the stuttering in his chest. 

For someone who claims to have a habit of being walked on, Will seems to be very fixed on what he wants, and apparently, that's to have some sort of relationship with Hannibal.

And Abigail, of course, but that's a given.

Hannibal knows, though, that he isn't what Will wants. A friendship with Hannibal would just melt into something else; he knows this because of the heat he feels when Will touches him, the warmth when he looks into his eyes.

There's something there that would be too painful to ignore if they were just friends, and if their relationship morphed beyond that, Hannibal would end up abandoning Will and breaking Hannibal's heart. 

Neither of them want that.

He doesn't know what happened to Will, but he understands that he is likely capable of doing something similar. Hannibal is very good at hurting people, and even more so of not showing any remorse.

It frightened him, the first time he broke someone's heart. It was too easy to walk out the door and not look back. 

Hannibal's world revolves around his wants and his needs. Mischa and Abigail are the only exceptions to that rule; he would move heaven and earth for either of them. They are unlike anyone else, to him. 

He protected Mischa, molded her, and that makes her an extension of himself. The same goes for Abigail.

Even though Mischa is a grown woman now, he still sees her as part of his own, and he would do anything for her, just as he would for his daughter.

Will is not young, not malleable like the clay he handles. Hannibal cannot mold him to become a part of himself, and so he knows that he won't be able to care for him like he does for Mischa and Abigail.

It would only end in pain. 

But when Will walks back into the house, holding Abigail's hand, Hannibal's heart aches. Something tells him that it could be different this time, that it might turn out alright.

And seeing the way Abigail smiles at Will, he knows that he's doomed whether he tries or not.

He decides he might as well try.


	7. Chapter 7

Will leads Abigail back into the house, her fingers locked in his. Hannibal sees that her gaze on him is full of admiration, of joy, and she giggles at something he's said. 

Frozen on the sofa, sketchbook in his lap, Hannibal meets Will's eye, sees the uncertainty with which he drops his gaze and Abigail's hand, and he thinks of Alana's advice to him.

_It's best to be direct with Will Graham._

And he  _had_ been direct, hadn't he? Shrugging Will off, handing him some cash, and reminding him that he's just the hired help. 

But Will isn't, Hannibal knows that, and he's fairly certain that Will does, too. 

The sketchbook in his lap has over a dozen pages devoted to Will, though the page he's working on is covered by a sprawling pumpkin patch. It's just an outline, now, and he means to fill it in later. There are more pressing issues for the time being.

He smiles at the both of them, noticing that the tips of their noses are red from the cold. Setting down his pencil, he hums, "Enjoying the weather?" 

Will slides his hands into his pockets. "While it lasts," he answers. "Storms will blow in, soon."

Hannibal nods; he dreads the coming of the snow, but it hasn't chased him off yet. His home is warm and well-stocked, after all, and the storms in Baltimore are never so cruel as the ones from his childhood.

Abigail tugs on Will's hand to attract his attention. "You should have Christmas with us," she says, almost pleading. "You and me and Papa can sit by the fire and open presents, and you can teach me to make snowmen like you said."

Will looks up at Hannibal, uncertain again. "I don't know." 

And if the way Abigail's lips purse at the thought of a Christmas without Will doesn't make up Hannibal's mind, nothing will.

"You should," he offers. "I like you, Will, as does Abigail. It would please us."

Abigail nods eagerly, but Will just looks at Hannibal with a frown. Confused. 

"Sorry?" he asks, blinking. 

"That would be me," Hannibal returns, providing a sheepish smile.

Abigail frowns at the two of them, but doesn't ask for context. Hannibal finds this surprising, but doesn't elaborate for her. He watches with some surprise when she turns and heads for the staircase. 

"Abigail," Hannibal calls. "Where are you going, _mažute?"_

She stops on the second step and turns to look at him, blinking twice, slowly. "I'm tired," she says. "I want to nap." 

Hannibal blinks in return. Now, it seems, all three of them are confused. Abigail hasn't napped since she was four, which admittedly wasn't too long ago, but it's still an abnormality. 

As if she can see the gears turning in his head, she offers a contrived yawn. Perhaps she just wants some alone time, he thinks. 

"All right," he says, glancing over at Will and back at her. "I'll wake you in an hour."

She nods curtly and hurries up the stairs, short legs carrying her up with unusual speed. When she's gone, Will clears his throat.

"I'll get going," he mutters, nodding towards the door. "Winston's probably hungry, anyway. I should get him home."

Hannibal stands abruptly, before he actually processes what he's doing. "Don't," he says, and swallows, wanting to take the eagerness of the word back, but it's too late. "I'm sure I can make something for him."

"You don't have to," Will says, warily. His eyes narrow, and he looks at the door again.

"Please," Hannibal pleads, and steps forward to place his hand on Will's shoulder. "I haven't properly apologized."

* * *

The last time Hannibal's hand was on Will's shoulder, he was confused then, too. Hannibal is just a bag of mixed messages, and it makes Will want to bolt. 

But he meets Hannibal's eyes anyway, and he finds comfort in the depth of his eyes. Dark, reflective, quiet. Will doesn't see anything there, no emotions. They're the only eyes he can easily meet.

That's the problem, though, isn't it? He doesn't know what Hannibal wants.

"Do you really feel the need to?" he asks, unsure of whether or not he should shrug him off. 

Hannibal's grip tightens, his gaze persistent. "Yes," he says. "I'm sorry, Will. I hadn't meant to put you off."

Will knows he can't be sure of the truth in that statement, but he wants to believe it. He wants Hannibal to be telling the truth. "What  _did_ you mean?" he asks, deciding to err on the side of caution before he throws it all to the wind. He can very easily see himself losing all sense in regards to Hannibal Lecter.

When Hannibal pauses, it gives him a moment to breathe. He takes the moment to watch Hannibal's mouth instead, the way it just barely purses as he tries to come up with something to say.

"I'm not entirely sure," Hannibal admits at last. "I intended to draw a boundary for myself, I believe. It would be safer for me to ensure our relationship to remain professional." He pauses again, and his deep breath prompts Will to take his own. "But safe does not always mean beneficial. Sometimes, we must take risks to reap our rewards."

Will feels Hannibal's eyes drop from his face to his waist. They linger where Will is resting his hands in his pockets, and he self-consciously wrings them together. 

"What kind of rewards are you looking for?" Will asks him, swallowing nervously. For all his prior flirtations, he suddenly feels very unprepared.

Hannibal doesn't answer. Instead, a thoughtful look passes over his face and he reaches for Will's hands. He pries them apart with a gentle touch, and Will feels no inclination to stop him. He watches, nearly enraptured as Hannibal looks, as his palms are bared and foreign thumbs trace at the lines. 

"It's as though the clay is a part of you," he murmurs, reverently turning both of Will's hands over. He brings them to his face for closer inspection, and Will shivers as his lips brush over the knuckles.

"We all end up clay, in the end," Will answers. He feels as if he's had the wind knocked out of him.

After smiling against him for a long moment, Hannibal releases Will, and both of their hands slowly drift back to their sides. The ethereal quality of the moment seems to settle back into normalcy. 

"So we do."

With that, an uneasy feeling begins prickling at Will, starting at his fingertips. Maybe it's on him for bringing up death, but he has to fight a shudder all the same. 

"You didn't answer my question," he says, turning his cheek to look out the window. The afternoon light is already shifting to gold; Winston has settled himself in a pile of leaves, soaking up what little warmth the light has to offer. He looks content.

Hannibal doesn't follow his gaze; Will can feel his focus burning into the side of his head.

"I appreciate your presence," he replies. "Abigail wants to keep you around. I would like to, as well, in whatever way that results in the satisfaction of all parties involved."

Will smiles, and a wry laugh huffs past his lips. This wasn't how he expected this conversation to go, with Hannibal propositioning and Will himself brewing with mistrust. An hour ago, it wouldn't have gone this way, but his anxiety has crept into place. He raises an eyebrow and glances back at Hannibal. "And if this party isn't easily satisfied?"

Hannibal seems undeterred. He continues watching Will, the barest hint of a smile on his mouth. "Despite my prior reluctance," he says, "I would like to make it clear I am willing to do whatever is necessary, as long as Abigail's health and happiness remain the priority."

"Is that why you've been holding back?" Will returns. "You weren't sure if I was good for Abigail?"

"I was not sure if my own desires would end up hurting her."

Will thinks he catches something like worry snag somewhere on Hannibal's face. The small reveal gives him relief, and he faces Hannibal again. "And you're sure of what you want now?" he asks.

Full of surprises, Hannibal reaches out to touch Will's face. His fingers catch his cheekbone, his thumb brushes beneath his chin. Will meets his eyes, waiting.

"I would like to sketch you," Hannibal tells him. "Just as you are, the light framing your face like this. Would you hold still for me?"

Amusement takes over Will's concern. Hannibal, for whatever veil disguises his intentions, certainly comes across as honest. Harmless. A good father, too. Will knows he's had enough betrayal for one lifetime, and Hannibal has just as much at stake has he does.

The man has a young, impressionable daughter, for Christ's sake. Will isn't the only one putting something on the line here, and Hannibal has finally taken the leap.

"If you'll let me stay for dinner," Will answers. "I ought to get my time in, to make up for all you paid me."

"Don't think about the money," Hannibal urges, retracting his hand and taking a step back. "You're not working for me. Not anymore, at least."

"I'm not," Will promises. He considers following after Hannibal, but remains in the light instead, just as he was asked. "I can stay, though, right? And you'll make something for Winston, too?"

Hannibal picks up his sketchbook from the sofa and brings it to a chair closer to Will and the window. He sits down and opens it to a page covered by a sprawling pumpkin patch before turning it to a blank one.

"You and your dog may stay as long as you like," he promises. "Though, if I do recall, you have work on Tuesdays." He looks up from the book, surveying Will with a look so thoughtful it's almost comical.

Will offers a grin. "I have work Tuesday through Friday, yeah."

Hannibal's pencil scratches over the paper in tiny increments, and he looks up with a pleased expression in return. "I'm sure Abigail and I will continue to monopolize the rest of your time."

The sun warming his back and Hannibal's attentive gaze focusing on his form, Will knows it's not something he'll mind at all.

* * *

Despite the rocky start that the conversation took, Hannibal feels pleased with the outcome.

He and Will have returned to the kitchen, this time with much less tension between them. He feels at ease as they brush against each other, and he even leans into Will's touch when he would have rejected it earlier. They prepare the ingredients for Winston's meal side by side: mashing the leftover pumpkin from the gnocchi filling, shredding day-old pork roast from brunch with the Verger-Blooms.

"I spent some time with Alana Bloom and her family yesterday," Hannibal says, glancing over to read Will's reaction. His expression comes across as impassive, so he presses on. "Abigail mentioned you and Winston. Alana pieced together your identity from that." 

Will raises an eyebrow. "Did she say anything about me?" he asks, sounding more amused than anything.

Hannibal moves to a cabinet and pulls out a stainless steel mixing bowl and spoons the cold dog food mixture into it. "She suggested that I be direct with you."

"Direct?" Will snorts and crosses his arms over his chest. "I'm guessing blunt behavior isn't not something you practice normally. You seem pretty rusty to me, at least."

"I prefer to tread delicately," he answers, setting down the bowl and spoon. "But I think it's clear that I should learn a different approach for you."

Will's laugh is brief and light. His hand brushes over Hannibal's shoulder as he passes him. "Tell Doctor Bloom I say thank you," he murmurs, and treads off to the back door. 

Hannibal listens as he lets Winston in. The click of claws against the wood floor and Will's own silent padding fill the silence, and he sets down the bowl just as the two enter the room. 

Winston's tail wags when he sees the offering, and he hurries to it, sticking his nose into the mixture immediately. Hannibal watches Will, who seems bemused by the situation.

Will's words from earlier fill Hannibal's mind. 

_Once, I made a mistake, and it hurt the people I loved._

Something tells him it wasn't Will that did the hurting. He bites the inside of the cheek in a futile attempt to curb the question he knows he needs the answer to. He asks it anyway.

"Who betrayed you, Will?" 

The look he gets in return isn't as bitter as what he was expecting. Resigned, perhaps.

"Doctor Bloom say anything about my trauma?" he asks, not meeting Hannibal's eye.

"No," Hannibal assures him. "I know wariness when I see it."

Will nods absently and crouches down go scratch at Winston's ears. The dog's tail sweeps over the floor in acknowledgement, but he continues lapping at the food.

"Guess it's only fair that you know what you're getting into," he mutters, glancing up. The whites of his eyes flash with it, and it almost looks like submission.

Hannibal ought to warn him of his atrocious track record, but the clench in his chest tells him it will be different this time. It  _has_ to be. Will can't afford another betrayal, and Hannibal can't afford a loss. 

He steps forward and offers Will his hand, pulling him to his feet. He doesn't let go when they stand facing each other, instead grasping Will's hand between both of his own.

"It's only fair if you want to tell me," he assures him. "Either way, I promise not to judge you."

"Well, it's your job," Will chuckles. He brings his other hand to rest over Hannibal's.

He can see the clay caught against Will's cuticles, the grime beneath his nails. It only charms him.

"And you are under no obligation to divulge anything because of that."

Will's thumb finds the inside of Hannibal's wrist. He stroked at the vulnerable spot thoughtfully, and Hannibal wonders if it's payment for the offering of history to come. He's not surprised when Will's deep breath is followes by an answer.

"I haven't been with anyone in three years," he says. "When I realized you were FBI, I figured you knew about what happened. It was a pretty big deal."

Hannibal nods, taking the confession in stride. Given Alana's own ties with the FBI, some involvement on Will's part was to be expected. What this has to do with his love life, however, Hannibal can't be sure.

"I guess you were on break at the time," Will continues, "but I was still in Lousiana. I was a cop, then, and not a bad one." His smile is wry as he lets go of Hannibal's hands to retreat into his pockets. "The work didn't treat me so well, though. I had a mental break and ended up shooting a guy, and that got me kicked off the force."

Hannibal nods. It's all he can do, wrought with the cool left in the void of Will's touch.

"That's all kind of beside the point," he continues, his head ducked. "But I was with a man at the time; long term. His name was Matthew." Will's hands clench in his pockets, his face blanching.

Hannibal isn't sure if a comforting touch would be welcome, so he holds back. Will's face steels over and he meets Hannibal's eye.

"Turns out Matthew was a sick bastard. He worked at the youth psych ward in New Orleans, and he'd sometimes go find the kids after they were released. They trusted him, and then he'd find them on their own and kill them. Sometimes he'd rape them, too." Will shrugs. "Pretty standard serial killer behavior, I just never saw any of it. I didn't even realize what he'd been off doing until he came home with a stab wound. My old colleagues came knocking on our door not long after."

Hannibal doesn't know what to say. He was sure that Will had suffered, but this was so far from what he expected. 

"He wasn't the man you knew," Hannibal offers. "That is betrayal of the highest caliber."

Will laughs bitterly. "But I'm still here," he offers. "Moved here not long after, almost got hired to consult for the FBI." He laughs again. "I could have been your replacement, but of course they knew all about what had happened. One psych eval from Doctor Bloom, and I started over with clay." He spreads his hands, and Hannibal can see all the cracks where the material fills.

"I'm glad you're here," Hannibal says. It's all he can offer, but Will still seems ready to continue. 

He takes Will by the elbow, gently, and leads him to sit at the table. Winston licks the at the remainders in the bowl, causing it to rattle against the floor before he gives up and settles at their feet.

"You said you'd made a mistake," Hannibal says. "This doesn't sound like your fault, Will."

Will folds his arms over the table top, and looks at Hannibal with a face that says he's had this conversation a thousand times before.

"I didn't believe what he'd done, at first," he admits. "I defended him in court, gave him the free time to fuck with my life. He tried to alienate me, and then I realized." Will doesn't look as troubled as one might expect. "Now he's rotting in a Lousiana prison. I don't think he'll get out any time soon."

Hannibal takes a deep breath. This is different than anything with his patients. He takes Will's hand, again, and presses a kiss to the open palm.

Will exhales. "You still want to keep me around?"

Hannibal kisses his hand again before saying, "You aren't to blame for any of this." 

"I know," he says. "It's a lot, though."

"We all carry things," Hannibal assures him. "My parents were murdered by Soviets when I was a child. I have trouble forming attachments. Will you reject me for that?"

"No, of course not." Will's words are immediate, soft. "I mean, as long as  _you_ aren't a serial killer, I want to stick around, too."

"Then stay."

They meet eyes, both smiling. Hannibal can't help but think that Alana would be proud, but he can't dwell on it long, with Will leaning towards him over the corner of the table. Before he can truly process it, his lips are caught by Will's in something sweeter than any first kiss he's ever had.

Will doesn't linger longer than a few seconds, and Hannibal tries to lean back into it.

"I can do that," Will whispers.

Hannibal plans to kiss him again and promise that he isn't experiencing any issues with attachments now, but he hears little footsteps on the stairs. A moment later, Abigail appears in the doorway, one side of her hair sticking up from her nap.

"Are you done being upset?" she asks them, yawning.

Will looks at her with wide eyes, and Hannibal stands up. He smiles and takes her hand.

"We're all done,  _mon chou._ Would you like me to brush your hair?"

She nods, still sleepy.

"Stay here for a minute, then."

As he exits the room, he sees Abigail immediately settle herself on Will's lap. That, along with the buzz on his lips, tells him that he's made the right decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry its taking so long to update :( life is wild
> 
> on the bright side, midterms are over and i have a bunch of candy from halloweekend!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i happen to love the idea of hannibal being That Dad just taking pictures of his kid all. the. time. and godmother bedelia rolling her eyes and wondering why the hell she agrees to hang out with this gigantic dork and his annoying child
> 
> (and if someone artistically adept wants to make those little texted snapshots come to life, i would forever be indebted to them. truly, my life would be made to see grumpy bedelia trying to scare the living shit out of will through a camera while abigail sleeps blissfully after a long day out)

On Tuesday, Will goes to work like he would every other day. He leaves Winston in the backyard after giving his ears a good scratch, and makes it to the studio a whole hour before his ten o'clock class, which is a rare miracle.

He feels good, though. Lighter, maybe. He isn't sure how to describe it, but he knows it's because of Hannibal.

He hasn't seen him since Sunday, and he still feels like they're on tender footing. The grounds haven't been established beyond their one kiss in the kitchen, and the proceeding dinner didn't feel any different than previous ones. Abigail's presence hadn't put a damper on the mood, though. Will just wanted to tread carefully around her, and wasn't sure what Hannibal expected of him in that.

Honestly, he thinks that even though they've just made the leap, Abigail has already figured them out. She's too goddamned clever, and he adores it. He's certain that she took her "nap" just to give them  _adult time,_ though he hasn't a clue how she determined it.

And she looked  _smug_ over dinner, glancing between the two of them like she was some grand conniving force. Will knows she's only five, but it's like she actively tried to set them up.

He would have spent the next day with them, too, but Hannibal was remiss to inform him that he and Abigail had a prior commitment for the day. Will doesn't know the details, but Abigail said something about an "Auntie Bedelia." She didn't seem terribly excited, but Hannibal did.

Hannibal texted Will throughout the day, mostly relaying messages from Abigail. Which Will kind of took as Hannibal taking an excuse to text him, especially after he started receiving pictures from their "prior commitment."

(Red-and-yellow-leaved trees out of a car window. Caption: _On our way to Washington. It is quite lovely out._ )

(A white Great Pyrenees spotted on the sidewalk in downtown. Caption: _A regal creature. The owner, unfortunately, did not allow Abigail to play with it._ )

(Abigail from across a rounded table, happily poking at a plate of buttered pasta. An accompanying selfie of Hannibal looking miffed. Caption:  _A menu worthy of two Michelin stars, and she did not enjoy the macaroni and cheese they provided. This, apparently, sufficed. You have corrupted her._ Response:  _what a cruel dictator you must be, to consider enlightenment corruption)_

(A sunny waterfront with sailboats dotting the water. Caption:  _I am pulled from the present moment to remember that you mentioned growing up by the water, and am left hoping that your memories of those days are pleasant._ Response:  _kind of a roundabout way to ask if i had a traumatic childhood, don't you think?)_

(Abigail posing in a brilliant blue dress in front of a fountain, and a blond woman, presumably Bedelia, in sunglasses sitting on the edge, looking rather exasperated. Caption:  _They will both grow tired of my photography by the end of the day. Bedelia is insisting we find a wine tasting, though I can't fathom why.)_

(A selfie from the passenger seat of Hannibal's Bentley, taken by 'Auntie Bedelia,' who still looks unamused. Abigail is asleep in the backseat. Caption: _Hannibal refuses to text and drive and told me to send you something. Though he will not see this message, I want you to understand that, whoever the hell you are, Will Graham, I will destroy you if you hurt Hannibal or my goddaughter. He speaks highly of you, and for your sake, I hope his judgment is correct.)_

The last one honestly terrified Will, but he was at least happy to know that Hannibal was so close to someone. Despite being a little jealous of 'Auntie Bedelia' and the apparently wonderful day she had with Abigail and Hannibal, he thinks he wants to meet her. 

At the end of the day, Hannibal sent Will a good night text:  _Bedelia has accused me of ruining our outing with my texting you, though she seemed no less enthusiastic than normal. Perhaps next month you will join us, and she will understand my enthusiasm._

Will grinned stupidly at that, and sent a selfie of him and Winston curled up on the floor for the evening. (Caption:  _sounds like a tall order, but i'd happily come along)_

His good mood persists even now, when it's too early in the morning and he's pulling up to the studio with not enough coffee in his system. As he enters the building from the back, he finds that he's not even daunted by the prospect of teaching his eleven o'clock class, which includes the troublemaking Julian Lounds.

He doesn't make it into his classroom before he's caught by one Beverly Katz, who grabs his elbow and meets his gaze with a cocked eyebrow.

"You're here early," she remarks, looking him over. "And there's pep in your step, too."

He tries to shrug and shrink away into his classroom, but she just smirks and tightens her grip, apparently demanding an answer.

"Just in a good mood, I guess," he offers.

She purses her lips, terribly smug. "Does it have anything to do with the hot European dad at the front desk? He's been waiting here since the doors opened."

Will tries to put on a poker voice, but whatever he managed falls apart when he asks, "And what's he doing here?"

Beverly releases his arm and shoves him in the direction of the lobby. "Says he brought you lunch."

"Oh." 

Mortification and joy fill him simultaneously. Beverly will likely harangue him about this for weeks, but that's alright, because Hannibal brought him lunch. A pleasant tickle warms his gut, and when he sees Hannibal waiting in one of the ugly plastic chairs, he grins. Abigail is with him, peering into the glass terrarium mounted on the wall. She seems mesmerized by the common toad within, watching it sit its little basin of water.

"Hi there," he says, looking back at Hannibal, whose gaze is already fixed on him.

Hannibal stands and picks up the small basket he's brought with him. "Will." He smiles warmly and offers the basket. "I've enrolled Abigail in your ten o'clock class. Would you agree that it's a good choice?

Will takes the basket. It's heavier than it looks, which leads him to believe he'll be having soup for lunch. Or maybe there's a hot drink somewhere in there. He grins at Hannibal.

"Honestly, yeah, she'll like it. I've got some rascals in the eleven o'clock group." He tries not to think about Julian Lounds, or the fact that his mother might decide to pop in for a visit. All trouble, that Freddie Lounds, and sickly sweet to boot.

"I see." Hannibal glances back at Abigail, who has pressed her nose against the glass. "Then I shall return to pick her up at ten. I've brought you lunch for your trouble."

Raising his eyebrows, Will says, "It's no trouble. It's my job."

"Well." Hannibal turns back to him with a twinkle in his eye. "Perhaps I also had an ulterior motive. Do you think you could stop by this evening to return the dishes?"

Will licks his lips and notes the teacher on desk shift watching. He leans towards them casually, obviously eavesdropping. 

"As long as your motive's not too ulterior," he answers, and hazards a wink. "I'd like to think I'll be benefiting from the evening, too."

Hannibal raises an eyebrow, and his smile is sly. "I think I can do something for that."

"Good," Will answers. He clutches the basket close to him, and for the sake of shock value, leans over to kiss Hannibal on the cheek. "Sure you don't want to join me here for lunch, too?" he whispers in his ear, only half teasing.

Hannibal's breath puffs against Will's neck before he steps back. "I'm afraid I can't," he confesses. "I have a patient scheduled from eleven to one. It's our regular appointment, and I already regret having missed it once this month."

"Shame," Will sighs. The other teacher is regarding them blatantly, now.

"I'll see you at ten," Hannibal offers, and then goes to Abigail. He taps her on the shoulder and murmurs something into her ear before she looks away from the toad to kiss him on the cheek. She waves him off and then scurries over to Will, looking excited. 

"I'm in your class today," she tells him.

"That you are," he says, and takes her hand. There's still about twenty minutes until the class starts, and the parents will be dropping off their kids soon. He begins leading her towards his classroom, but he hears a throat clear behind him.

He looks over his shoulder to see the teacher at the desk still watching them. He's stood up now, leaning heavily on the desk. Will can't remember if he teaches photography or vocals, and can't find it in him to care.

"I really didn't think you had it in you, Graham," he says, tilting his head and giving an ugly sneer. "Impressive. Your beau is quite the catch."

Will considers telling him to fuck off, but then remembers Abigail. He doesn't want to know what Hannibal would do if Abigail came home cussing.

"Thanks, Chilton," he snaps. "Can't say the approval's mutual, though, or else you'd be teaching multiple classes instead of being stuck at desk shift."

The teacher gapes, apparently having forgotten that Will's opinion holds weight at the studio. Maybe that'll teach him to keep his nose out of other people's business. Will doubts it, though. People like Chilton live for harassing others.

He takes Abigail to his classroom, not bothering to give the issue much more thought.

* * *

"Okay, everyone," Will says. "Get some clay and we'll start class."

Two thirds of the class immediately hop to their feet, rushing to get a prime lump, despite the fact that all the clay is the same. Abigail stays low in her seat, watching the other, mostly older kids with wide eyes.

Chloe Zeller isn't here today, so Abigail has the disadvantage of not knowing anyone else. She turns to look at Will for support.

He bites his cheek. If he gives her too much attention, it might single her out. 

"Do you have a question, Abigail?" he asks, staying seated. He digs his hands into his pre-selected piece of clay to keep his hands from clenching in worry.

She shakes her head and looks at the clay. Will's breath catches, worried she's already going to shut down before the class has started.

The little boy next to her pipes up, though. Will thinks is name is Benny. He leans over to Abigail and whispers very loudly.

"You have to raise your hand," he tells her. "Then the teacher knows if you have a question. It's O.K. if you didn't know that, I didn't know that until I went kindergarten, which was..." He holds up a hand and looks at it curiously, but doesn't count his fingers. "When summer stopped."

Will lets out a breath when Abigail gives Benny a hesitant smile.

"I don't go to kindergarten," she says.

Benny nods and stands up. "That's O.K.," he repeats. "I don't like it  that much. I have to get up at _o' dark thirty."_ He grabs at Abigail's elbow. "That's what Daddy calls it. Come on, let's get some clay!"

Abigail doesn't jerk away from Benny, to Will's relief. She follows him to the table, and they both stick their hands in the blocks of clay instead of taking the portioned pieces that he set out. Barely any of the kids ever do; he doesn't know why he keeps trying.

He watches with quiet delight as Abigail digs her hands into the clay, giggling when Benny tells her not to try and eat it, it 'doesn't taste as good as play-doh does.'

Will is grateful that she doesn't ask what it is; he would  _much_ rather she use non-hardening moulding clay. Play-doh has terrible consistency, and yet children always prefer it. It makes no sense.

With a little reluctance, he realizes that he might be able to understand how Hannibal feels about macaroni.

* * *

Class goes successfully. Everyone manages to make something at least reminiscent of a tiny penguin figurine, and no one smashes anything when they leave their creations to dry on the greenware shelf. 

Abigail clearly has fun listening to Benny tell her about penguins, and then about his dad's parrot, and then about his dads. She listens raptly to everything he says, rolling out its individual shapes just as Will instructed.

When class is over at ten forty-five, he expects Hannibal to already be at the door, and when half of the class have been picked up and some of Will's eleven o'clock kids have started showing up, he checks his phone.

One voicemail from Hannibal. 

He opens it immediately, gathering Abigail to his side. She puts a tiny hand on his elbow, but is otherwise occupied with watching the chickadee on the windowsill.

_"Hello, Will. I'm afraid I will be unable to pick up Abigail on time; Jack Crawford has invited himself over. I have sent Doctor Bloom to take her home for the afternoon. Hopefully, we'll still be able to have dinner. Take care."_

Will lets out an involuntary sigh, which earns him a raised eyebrow from Julian Lounds' mother, Freddie, in the doorway. He shakes his head and she shrugs, kissing the crown of her son's unruly ginger hair.

Will might not like her kid, but he admires her tenacity; a lot of single parents he knows don't hold up half as well as she does (Hannibal excluded, of course). She attempted to ask him out when Julian first started taking classes at the studio, but he shut that down quickly. 

He won't admit it, but she scares him. A _lot._

He turns his attention back to Abigail, who has drifted closer to the window. She places her palm against the glass, which makes the bird flutter away. She jumps in surprise and then pouts, turning around and tugging on his sleeve.

"It went away."

"They're flighty like that," Will tells her, and crouches down to meet her eye. "Doctor Bloom is going to pick you up, okay? Your papa called and says he's busy working."

Abigail's pout turns to a frown. "But I want to stay with you," she says. She blinks, and her big, blue eyes tug at his heart.

"I know, _mon_ _chou,"_ he answers, patting her cheek, "but I have to listen to your papa."

She wrinkles her nose at that, and looks like she wants to protest. Before she can, though, Doctor Bloom enters the room. Will almost jumps to his feet at the sight of her; he hadn't started the day expecting to see his former psychiatrist.

To spare them both the awkwardness, he initiates the conversation.

"Doctor Bloom. So nice of you to make it out to the studio."

Amused, she raises an eyebrow. She stops in front of him, hip cocked and arms crossed over her chest. 

"I didn't want to impose," she replies, smiling warmly. "You seem to be doing well, though. Miss Katz told me in the lobby that you're teaching more classes than any of the other instructors."

He returns her smile, though it feels stiff. "I do it for the children."

She looks down at Abigail with a grin. "And did Will do a good job, Abby?"

Abigail nods and wraps both of her arms around one of Will's. "He showed us how to make birds!"

Will jerks his head in the direction of the greenware and the little clay blobs that dot the top shelf. Doctor Bloom nods as if impressed.

"So, you had fun?" 

"Yes." Abigail nods again, and her grip on Will's arm tightens.  _"So_ much fun," she elaborates. "Maybe you can leave me with Will, and I can have more fun!"

Doctor Bloom's smile doesn't wane, but she does sigh. "Another time, Abby. Margot and I want to spend time with you, too. We're going to bake cookies to surprise Gabe and Heather with when they come home!"

The bargaining chip obviously doesn't work. Abigail tugs on Will's arm.

"Do you know how to bake cookies?"

Will purses his lips, holding his breath. "I can, but not as good as Doctor Bloom can, I bet." He half shrugs at her and adds, "I have work, Abigail." 

Freddie Lounds is still in the room with her son, but all of the other parents are waiting in the lobby. A few kids are sat at the table, obliviously chattering with each other.

Abigail just pouts. "I can sit in the back again, like last time," she points out.

"Abigail," Doctor Bloom says, her soft voice becoming stern, "your papa said I have to pick you up. We should go before Will's class starts."

Will wiggles his arm free of her grip and crouches down again, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I'll see you tonight,  _mon chou._ I have to drop of your papa's dishes, remember?"

"Yeah," she sighs, still pouting. She turns to Alana with her arms crossed, looking very grown up. "Okay, Miss Alana. I can go, now."

Doctor Bloom tilts her head. "I'm happy that you  _can go, now,"_ she chuckles, and shakes her head. She takes Abigail's hand and leads her out of the room, waving over her shoulder as she does so. 

Will watches, feeling a little guilty and a little dumbfounded.

From the back of the room, Freddie Lounds clears her throat.

"Picking favorites, are we, Graham?" she teases.

He turns to address her, and once again skips the curse due to the presence of small ones. "Sure am," he tells her, and winks just because she won't expect it.

She just laughs, throwing her head back. She pats his shoulder on the way out and calls goodbye to Julian once more.

A few minutes later, it's eleven o'clock, and the rest of the children come to class. Will tries his best to focus on teaching the rascals and to not to get  _too_ excited about eating lunch.

Knowing that Hannibal made it makes for a difficult task, but he manages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> characterization of kids is hard but for Benny i just thought "eh most bubbly kids i know just talk forever. endless tangents, that'll work"
> 
> also, apologies for the stretch between updates. but y'all should be expecting it by now. i have a busy life
> 
> (and i just got my first official acceptance letter! i'm going to college!!!)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [golden beet salad](https://www.bonappetit.com/recipe/marinated-beets-with-pistachios-and-tarragon)
> 
> [french duck](http://www.seriouseats.com/recipes/2009/07/french-in-a-flash-rustic-roast-duck-recipe.html)
> 
> As usual, I've kept the recipes fairly simple because I have no concept of gourmet cooking. As we speak, I'm waiting for cod filets to thaw to bake them. 
> 
> But, imagine that Hannibal has arranged the beets beautifully and has done something aesthetically brilliant with the duck. Heck if I know.

Hannibal has a headache by the time Jack Crawford takes the hint and leaves.

The afternoon has mostly slipped away; the sunlight is already rich and heavy from the approaching sunset. He checks his watch and it reads four thirty.

Alana should be bringing Abigail home soon, and Will should follow shortly after. The company will hopefully clear his mind and relax him. 

The stories Jack brought were nothing short of horrific, but Hannibal knows manipulation when he sees it. No matter how wicked Jack makes the world to be, Hannibal knows it won't be better off because of him in the long run. People still die, and he prioritizes his own life and family above that.

_Family._

For so long, Mischa was all he had. Then, Bedelia, and next Alana, and then Margot and their children. Abigail, later, and more wholly so.

And now, he thinks Will might fall into that category, too. Eventually, if he plays his cards right. 

The thought of Christmas dinner fills his head: Will, Abigail, and himself around a table lit with red candles. A whole roast lamb, leeks and onions, perhaps even a Christmas tree, if Abigail asks... 

A thought startles him.

Does Will even celebrate Christmas? 

With a sigh, he realizes that he's almost slumped over on the kitchen counter, caught up in his thoughts. There's no point fantasizing; Abigail should be home before the hour is up, and Will ought to follow shortly. He needs to get started on dinner. 

He's behind on preparations; he had meant to marinate the beets for the salad earlier, but then Crawford showed up and hijacked his afternoon. He considers putting them off for another night, but he still has at least three hours before they ought to be served, and they're fresh from the garden. It would be a shame to keep them waiting.

He steams them in the oven, and just before they're ready, he hears the doorbell ring. Adjusting his apron, he hurries out of the kitchen to answer it, and doesn't bother looking through the window to check who it is.

Because of that, he's shocked when he opens the door and finds Will there instead of Abigail and Alana. 

"You're early," he says, quickly folding his hands behind his back.

Will's hands aren't fully free of clay. The crease between his thumb and forefinger is ashy gray, and some has dried and cracked around his nails. Instead of the wicker basket Hannibal provided, he carries a tall ceramic dish with a handled lid. It's a deep black, its glaze glimmering in the rich and yellow afternoon light. Two shallow grooves run through the center, cutting through to the bronzy color of the baked clay itself.

Will jerks his head to the side in an awkward form of apology and offers a toothy smile. "Sorry," he says. "Got excited, I guess." He raises the dish. "This finished firing today. It's not much, but I thought of you when it came out and figured I'd bring it along."

Hannibal smiles. The early arrival, while unexpected, is not unwelcome, and the thoughtful gift offsets any potential rudeness.

"It's beautiful," he says, and holds open the door. 

"Thanks." Will grins again and passes him, entering the house. He inhales, testing the air, and turns to look at Hannibal with a raised eyebrow. "Haven't started on dinner yet?" 

"As I said, you're early." Hannibal places a hand on the small of Will's back to lead him into the kitchen. "Abigail has yet to arrive, as well."

"Oh. Can I help you cook, then?"

"If you like." Hannibal holds open the kitchen door for Will, allowing it to swing shut on silent hinges once they both enter. Will sets down his creation on the counter, and Hannibal goes to stand by him and inspect it. He runs his fingers along the top, feeling the minute details of the surface. Small, almost imperceptible grooves run through it, each likely caused by the fine creases of Will's hands—

"You made this with your hands." Hannibal lets out a breath as he says it, and then goes to feel the side of the dish, the perfect cuts in the clay. Will's creation.

"Well, mostly," Will laughs. "I used a wheel, naturally. And a rib to smooth it, the tip of a paint brush for the two lines."

Hannibal retracts from the dish and reaches for Will's right hand, resting on the table. He takes it in both of his and feels the creases of his palm, rubs at the clay where it's dried and settled.

"Use your hands, next time," he says, and brings Will's hand to his lips. He presses a kiss to each of his knuckles, reverent.

Will laugh comes out as a huff. "If you like," he says, shaking his head. 

Hannibal feels very serious, but Will's amusement doesn't offend him. He lets go, ready to return to preparing dinner, to show off his own art. The beets need to be—

His phone rings, startling him. He reaches into his pants pocket, behind the apron, and sees that Margot is calling.

"Take the beets out of the oven," he tells Will, and picks up the phone. 

"Hello, Han!" Margot announces, her voice loud and jolting through the speaker.

Hannibal sighs and turns the volume down. She must want something. "Hello, Margot," he says. "Is everything well? I was expecting Abigail to be home by now."

Far in the background, he can hear one of the twins excitedly chattering about something. "Oh, yes," Margot says. "It's great. Alana's introduced them to  _Star Wars,_ and Abigail is  _loving_ it."

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Not too long ago, he might have doubted the statement, but after the Kraft Incident, he's realized that his daughter is more corruptible than he had hoped. 

"In fact," Margot continues, "we were wondering if you'd let her stay the night. She wants to watch more, and, well, you have  _Will_ over for the evening..."

She lets that hang in the air. Hannibal bites the inside of his cheek. 

"Abigail has never spent the night away from home," he counters. Though he would trust Margot and Alana with his life, he feels a small swell of anxiety within him. 

"She's five, Hannibal," Margot points out. "Gabe and Heather had their first sleepovers when they were four. And she seems excited about it." 

Hannibal takes another breath.

"Do you want to talk to her?" Margot offers.

"Yes," he sighs.

By the oven, Will gives him a confused look, head tilted to the side. Next to him, steam rises from the beets. 

While Margot is getting Abigail, Hannibal goes over to join Will. He takes a dish cloth and shows Will how to free the soft beets of their skin by rubbing them gently with the cloth.

"I've got it," Will tells him. His accompanying smile is small, but greatly reassuring.

A moment later, Margot returns to the line. "Here she is!"

Abigail breathes loudly into the speaker. _"Teti!"_ she says. 

Hannibal smiles.  _"Mažute,"_ he answers. "Margot says you would like to spend the night with Gabe and Heather. Is that true?"

"Mmhm," she confirms. "I want to see Princess Leia save the Galaxy! And Heather says she can let me use her light-saver to fight Gabe!"

The enthusiasm in her voice is beyond genuine: almost par to how she talks about Will. Warmth pools in him as he wonders if he'll have to style her hair in those atrocious side buns. 

Mischa asked him to do it for her, back when the film was first released. He has never shared her enthusiasm for film, but is certain that she will be thrilled that Abigail might be developing it.

With a sigh, he decides that he'll have to rent the newest film when Mischa returns from her latest tour. Abigail will love it.

"Are you sure you don't want to come home?" he asks her. "Will is over for dinner, remember?"

He's met with a moment of silence as Abigail ponders this, torn between the satisfaction of knowing the end of the story and seeing her new favorite person.

"Will can spend the night at our house," she says at last, "and then I can see him when I come home!"

Hannibal purses his lips. "I don't know if that's appropriate, Abigail," he says, and glances over at Will, who is still working with the beets. 

Will looks up with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh." Abigail pauses. "Can I still spend the night here,  _teti?_ I promise I'll be good."

"You aren't afraid to spend the night away from home? What about your favorite plush?"

Abigail sighs. "I can sleep without Mr. Mongoose, Papa. And Gabe has a soft turtle that I can hug, too. Right, Gabe?"

A shrill  _yes_ comes from the background, and Hannibal shakes his head.

"Well," he says, "I suppose you're very grown-up now. Does this mean you should have more chores now?"

"No!" she cries, and lets out a peal of giggles.

He smiles fondly. "I hope you enjoy your sleepover, Abigail. Would you pass the phone to Miss Margot?"

"Yes, Papa," she says. "And thank you!"

Margot takes back the phone a moment later, chuckling. "She wore you down, did she?"

"Hardly," Hannibal answers. "Melted is perhaps a better word."

She laughs again. "Enjoy your date night," she says, and then drops her voice to the whisper. "Alana tells me you haven't gotten any you-know-what in  _ages._ You can thank me later."

Before he can protest, she hangs up, and Hannibal is left half-gaping. Will sets down the towel and faces him, looking amused once again.

"Abigail has opted to spend the night with the Verger-Blooms," Hannibal explains. 

Will crosses his arms over his chest. "First night away from home?" he guesses. "That's a big step."

Hannibal shakes his head and goes to the refrigerator where the marinade for the beets is waiting. "You're partially responsible, in my mind," he answers. "The catalyst to her independence."

"Right," Will laughs. "I took her off your hands for the day, and now she wants to see what else the world has to offer."

"And what wondrous things there are." Hannibal turns to look at Will pointedly.

Will's cheeks dust with pink, and he wrings his hands in front of him. "For a while, there, I didn't think you'd acknowledge that. Figured there must be some things that are too cheap for you."

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. Would Will really consider himself cheap?

"I mean, what sort of worldly man doesn't let his kid drink soda?" Will demands, returning the arched brow.

Hannibal narrows his eyes. "Fetch a bowl from the third cabinet, please," he says. "The beets need to marinate for two hours, and we're running short on time."

* * *

Will would have thought that he would be more tense without Abigail as a buffer for once, but he feels very relaxed. Though the expectation to  _do_ something looms overhead, he doesn't let it stifle him. 

With Abigail gone for the night, he feels as though he  _should_ sleep with Hannibal, but it doesn't feel right. He knows he should trust Hannibal, that he does, but his head keeps rewinding to Matthew, and sex feels like too much to give, for now. 

Hannibal is ever the gentleman, anyway, keeping his touches brief and the flirtation to a minimum. He won't demand sex; Will knows that. He isn't like Matthew in that regard, or any other.

By the time dinner is in the oven, though, Will begins to wonder if Hannibal is being  _too_ much of a gentleman. They've only kissed once, and watching Hannibal, Will feels hungry for some more.

"The duck should be done in forty minutes," Hannibal says. He reaches for a bottle of wine on the counter, and Will watches the way his rolled sleeves stretch against his biceps.

Not for the first time, he wonders how a psychiatrist/stay-at-home dad keeps in shape. He really does prefer it when Hannibal eschews the suit jacket, though, and decides he can enjoy the sight without questioning it.

Hannibal uncorks the bottle with a loud  _pop._

Will swallows, and decides it's a good time to say something. Anything.

"Perhaps we should occupy ourselves, then." He leans against the counter and crosses his arms, hoping he sounds smoother than he feels. "Any ideas?"

Hannibal pours the wine into the two glasses he's set out, the liquid forming a burgundy arc the color of his shirt. "You may set the table," he says, glancing up for only a second. 

Disappointed, Will purses his lips. He's not sure if Hannibal just shut him down, or if his attempt at flirtation wasn't obvious enough. He would have thought that they were past the point of walled rejections.

Or, perhaps Hannibal is just dedicated to the meal.

"Which dishes?" Will asks, because by now, he's used to the layout.

Hannibal raises his glass of wine and breathes it in, closing his eyes, clearly savoring it. When he opens them, he says, "The glass ones."

Will huffs and makes his way over to the correct cabinet. "In the mood for transparency, are we?" he asks, reaching up into the cupboard.

"Are you?" Hannibal swirls his glass, still just beneath his nose, and watches Will.

"I don't know," Will confesses. He pulls down two flawless glass plates, so clean and polished that he can see right through them. They slightly warp the shape of the floor and his shoes beneath him. He looks up. "Would I like what I see?"

He doesn't know why he says it. Doubt, maybe, that Hannibal has changed his mind.

Hannibal pauses and sets his glass back on the counter. "I don't see why you wouldn't," he answers, and crosses over so that he stands in front of Will. He raises his hand and places it under Will's chin, tilting his head up. "Unless, of course, you are having second thoughts?"

Will finds it hard to meet Hannibal's eyes. He tilts his head, exposing more of his neck but allowing him to look away. Hannibal drops his hand back to his side.

_Transparency,_ Will thinks. 

"I don't want to have sex tonight," he says, even though Hannibal has nothing to suggest that would happen. "I'm not ready for that again, yet."

Hannibal nods, lowering his head. His eyes look suddenly darker. "I will not ask it of you."

"I would like to kiss you, though," Will adds. He looks at Hannibal's lips for good measure.

"That seems doable," Hannibal says, his lips barely turning up into a smile. He brings his hand back to Will's face, brushing his thumb over Will's cheek.

Will's breath hitches, and just as he's ready to go for it, Hannibal turns around. 

"Put silverware at the table," he says. "I'll arrange a centerpiece. Do you remember where the napkins are?"

Will sighs, more than a little disappointed, but he nods in affirmation. He sets down the plates, gathers up the silverware, and retreats into the dining room. He sets the places from each other, and wonders if Hannibal would rather sit at the head of the table. 

He finds that he doesn't care, and gets the napkins from the tall, narrow dresser at the edge of the room. He chooses the dark, reddish brown ones because they remind him of clay. 

Hannibal appears a few minutes later with a flat, bronze disk arranged with a variety of dried grasses and flowers. He regards the napkins with a brief nod.

"Excellent choice," he says. 

As he sets down the arrangement, Will wonders how many weird items like that he has on hand for his centerpieces, and how he manages to make everything look so  _nice._

He's sure that dinner will look just as good, if he can handle the anticipation.

* * *

Hannibal, despite his better judgment, retreats into the kitchen under the ruse of preparing the salad. Will offers to light fire, and stays there, drinking his wine.

He feels nervous, though his fingers remain sure as he carefully drains the beets and plates them. He drizzles the marinade over top, breathing carefully, and adds the pistachios and tarragon.

One of the plates looks off, but he doesn't feel like correcting his mistake. He picks up his abandoned wine glass and takes a long sip, telling himself he has nothing to be anxious over.

After all, he and Will have established their mutual attraction. Will is not having second thoughts, and neither is he. In fact, he feels grateful that he can have this dinner alone with Will. 

When it comes down to it, though, he isn't entirely sure what to do. Gone are the suave days of his youth when he would seduce someone in the course of a night, make love to them, and  _possibly_ maintain a short affair for a few weeks after. Now, he's a father, and he intends to pursue Will Graham for the long term.

But  _how?_

It should be easy, he thinks. Will has already laid out the ideal ground: no sex, yet. If they don't have sex straight away, then it won't feel so casual, and his entire mindset will have shifted.

But then what is he meant to do? Feed him dinner, of course—that's the easiest part. Have a few flirtatious exchanges, as well. That, too, should be simple, but when was the last time he  _meant_ it when he said something like that?

With Will, he supposes. 

His mind brings forth an image of Will's hand in his, and it soothes him for a moment, only to be crossed with a flutter of anticipation. 

He sighs and checks on the duck. Eight minutes. He double-checks that everything is clean, that everything else has been put together, and sees that Will left the plates on the counter. Those go in the plate warmer, and he crosses his arms and leans against the counter.

Everything will come together, he decides. He just can't overthink it.

* * *

As expected, dinner is delicious. 

Will tries to focus on food. He's only had duck a handful of times, and Hannibal's rendition (obviously) exceeds them all. The meat nearly melts on his tongue, and he wonders if he'll ever be able to stand his own cooking again. 

Through a sip of wine, he smiles as he figures he definitely will. Hannibal's snobbery has its fine points, but sometimes, nothing stands up to something as simple as boxed mac and cheese. He knows, at least, that Abigail agrees with him.

"Enjoying yourself?" Hannibal asks. His eyebrows are raised. Clearly, he's spotted Will's half-hidden grin.

"Very much," he answers. "Hard not to, with you hosting."

Hannibal raises his own glass. "A host is nothing without an excellent guest."

"I think the food speaks for itself, regardless of company," Will says. He glances over at the empty salad plate, almost wistful. He never would have figured he liked beets. 

"All the same," Hannibal returns, "it's better having you to share it with."

Will hopes he really means that. After the almost-kiss in the kitchen, he isn't sure of himself. Hannibal said one was doable, but what if that means a half-hearted press of lips before shutting the door, and never being invited back?

But that's stupid, he tells himself. There's Abigail, for starters, and even their exchange from earlier that morning. He likes Hannibal, and as hard as he is to read, he knows there's something being returned, too.

There just has to be. 

Conversation dwindles with the food on their plates, the two of them barely capable of anything better than small talk. Will almost wishes that Abigail would appear and say something charming to distract them both, but of course, that won't happen. They're stuck here together, left to figure out if they can actually be something on their own.

When they're both finished, Hannibal takes their plates into the kitchen. Will moves himself into the living room to stand in front of the fire he's started, hands clasped behind his back. 

Expectation and doubt cling to the air around him. He finds it hard to swallow, and focuses on the flames, the heat seeping through his clothes. 

Hannibal enters so quietly that Will doesn't notice him until there's a hand on his hip and puff of breath behind his ear. When Hannibal speaks, his voice is low, quiet.

"I must admit to feeling somewhat anxious," he says, leaning closer into Will's space. "Please take that into account when I inevitably do something foolish."

Will lets out a relieved laugh. "Only if you do the same for me." 

"Of course." Hannibal's hand becomes more sure, holding more than hovering. 

Spurred by his relief and a convenient burst of courage, Will turns around and puts his own arms around Hannibal. As much as he dislikes his jackets, the silky material works as a buffer, one he needs for the moment.

Hannibal, too, seems relieved, and his free hand moves to the back of Will's neck with a pleasant grip. His fingers just barely breach Will's curls.

"May I?" he asks, lowering his gaze.

Will closes his eyes, tilts his head back. "Please."

Hannibal kisses him with closed lips, pressing once and then twice, careful and soft. Will more feels the closeness of their bodies, something he hasn't experienced in years, not even during their first kiss.

He winds his arms tighter around Hannibal and parts his lips to take Hannibal's upper one between his. Apparently, it's a good move, because Hannibal brings his fingers further into Will's hair and reciprocates.

It's good, it's just enough. He feels warm, calm, satisfied. When they break apart a few moments later, his lips already feel slightly numb and he smiles.

Hannibal's eyelids are low, and he runs his hand along the side of Will's face, up and against his stubble. 

"Would you mind some music?" he asks, only partially pulling away.

Will lets go of him, slow and a little reluctant. "Not at all." 

As Hannibal goes to put a record on, Will settles himself on the couch. He throws his arm over the back, and watches as Hannibal selects something and sets it on the old machine. He closes his eyes and leans his head back as the music begins to play, classical as expected.

He peeks open one eye when he hears the rustle of fabric and sees Hannibal place his jacket on the sofa arm furthest from them, and closes it again when he settles next to him. 

"Comfortable?" Hannibal asks.

Will hums in response, the affirmation coming from deep in his throat. He still feels warm. Very relaxed. Finally.

Hannibal carefully sidles closer to him and leaves a lingering kiss close to Will's mouth. Will turns his head so they can kiss properly, and Hannibal's hand finds its place in his hair again.

It lasts longer this time, having the advantage of tongue. Hannibal seems to be careful with every move, and Will just relishes the contact. He realizes that a large part of him never thought he would ever get to do this again, with Hannibal or anyone else.

He breaks away for a breath and adjusts his arm so it's around Hannibal, rubbing small circles over the thin fabric, feeling his shoulder muscles. Definitely in shape for a psychiatrist.

Hannibal keeps their faces close, breathing softly.

"You know," he hums, bringing their foreheads together, "that Abigail asked if you would spend the night, so you would be here in the morning when she returns. I told her it would be inappropriate."

Will's mouth quirks into a smile. "Not wrong," he answers.

Hannibal brings their lips together again, quickly. "Perhaps a guest room would be more appropriate," he suggests. He massages at Will's scalp, kisses him briefly once more. "I don't know if I'm quite ready to send you home."

"Can't," Will answers. He turns so he can lean more on Hannibal, bringing his chest close against the other's side. "Have to take care of Winston. But I can stay a little while longer."

"As long as you like."

"Does that extend to future occasions as well?"

Hannibal smiles, then, and moves to kiss his forehead. Lingering there, he murmurs, "I certainly hope so."

Relief and hope work their way into Will, and he slumps himself further against Hannibal. He thinks he can really see all of this working out for the both of them. For Abigail, too.

It's a good thing, that much he knows for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Abigail says "light-saver." That's what I called them as a kid. My brother had a lisp because of his missing teeth and I heard it first from him, so I just figured that's how it's said.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to leave kudos if you think they're deserved, and a comment if you feel it's warranted! Let me know what you think, I always love hearing from readers :)


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